Love's Rescue (Keys Of Promise Book 1) (Historical Romance)

by Christine Johnson

She looked at Rourke. “You’re the one building the new warehouse?”

  He laughed. “Actually, your father hired the work crew and set things in motion.” He pointed toward shore. “Did you notice the sign?”

  She squinted into the sun. Beneath the peak of the roof, large letters had been painted on the wall of the second story. “O’Malley. Then it truly is yours.”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “But why, Father? You never liked Rourke. What changed your mind?”

  Her father looked uncomfortable. “Now, that’s not quite right. Rourke was a good friend to your brother the last few years. I just had difficulty seeing him as a son-in-law.”

  “I see.” For all his change of heart, that had not changed.

  “Look at me, Lizzie.” Father lifted her chin. “I did this because he loves you and you love him. You do, don’t you?”

  She had never thought to hear such words from her father. “But you refused to listen to me whenever I brought up his name.”

  “I was a fool.” Father cleared his throat again. “We, uh, came to an understanding.”

  “Understanding?” She realized she was echoing what he said, but this was so surprising she could not find words.

  Rourke took her hand, and before she even knew what was happening, he dropped to one knee. “Miss Elizabeth Benjamin. Last month I promised to return to you. On that day I also gave you my grandmother’s wedding ring as a pledge for the future.”

  She touched her throat. The ring had become a part of her these past weeks, but she had not dared to believe this could happen. “Are you—?”

  Rourke grinned. “I believe I’m supposed to take the lead on this.”

  Her cheeks heated, and not from the sun.

  He gave her a little wink of encouragement, and the twinkle in his eye sent her insides fluttering in the most wonderful way.

  “Miss Elizabeth Benjamin, will you consent to marry me following a proper courtship?”

  “Yes! Oh yes.” He might have had more to say, but she would not wait one second in case he or Father changed their minds. “But must it be proper? Might we hurry it a bit?”

  Rourke looked shocked, but her father chuckled.

  She drew another breath. “Wait until Anabelle hears. And Caroline and Charlie and, oh, Aunt Virginia.”

  “Will you at least give me time to put the ring on your finger?” Rourke said with what she hoped was exaggerated exasperation.

  “Of course.” She pulled the ribbon from around her neck and handed it to him.

  He held the ring and snapped the ribbon.

  “In a hurry, Captain?” her father said.

  “I have waited four years.” Rourke slipped the ring on her finger. “I can’t wait a day longer.”

  He swept her into his arms right there on the docks, despite her tangled hair and dusty skirts. He gazed deep into her eyes, and then he kissed her with such passion and promise that it erased every heartache of the last four years. Hope unfurled far inside and blossomed outward until she could not bear the joy.

  “Ahem.” Father loudly cleared his throat. “We are in public.”

  Elizabeth reluctantly broke the kiss, but she would not leave Rourke’s arms. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

  “Never?” But Rourke’s stern question was paired with a grin. “Do you propose to take the helm when I head to sea?”

  She laughed. “Perhaps I shall.”

  “She’s a lot to handle.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure if he meant her or the ship.

  He must have read her mind, for he laughed and then turned her around. “But she has a good name.”

  She blinked back tears as she breathed it aloud. “Redemption.”

  “Fitting, don’t you think?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat, for in that instant she knew without a doubt that her place was not aboard a working ship. “I belong here, with my family.”

  Rourke brushed aside her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. “I’m glad to hear that, because I intend to spend most of my time ashore now.”

  “You do?”

  “It would make it easier for you to keep me in sight every moment of the day,” he teased.

  She protested, but he kissed her again, and the protest died. Those sea-green eyes shone with the promise of a lifetime.

  “How can I be away from you a single moment?” he whispered.

  Her heart filled to overflowing.

  “I do have one more thing to show you.” He guided her along the docks and pointed up at the warehouse. “I noticed that someone took the liberty of adding a little more to that sign.”

  She’d thought her heart would burst before.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” He beamed with pride.

  “O’Malley and Sons?” Though the idea of children underfoot delighted her, he—and Father—had to learn not to act so hastily. “Aren’t you two putting the cart before the horse?”

  “Maybe,” Rourke admitted without the slightest hint of regret, “but I can’t imagine anything sweeter. Should I have the painters change it?”

  Elizabeth leaned against the man who would soon be her husband. “No, don’t. I rather like the ring of it. Unless, of course, we only have daughters, then I do expect a change.”

  Rourke let loose the most wonderful laugh she had ever heard, while high overhead, a magnificent frigate bird soared against the sun, its mate at its side.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, all glory and honor belong to the Lord my God, Author of all things. With Him all things are possible.

  My deepest gratitude to my critique partners, Jenna Mindel and Kathleen Irene Paterka, whose support, encouragement, and creative energy pulled me through the doubts and dead ends. Love you!

  To my editor, Andrea Doering, and the whole fabulous team at Revell—thank you!

  Thanks also go out to my agent, Nalini Akolekar, who believed in this project from the start.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to those researchers who have compiled histories and resources on the Florida Keys. Also to the wonderful Florida History Department in the Monroe County Public Library in Key West, which houses the records from the “wreckers’ court” among its extensive historical collections.

  My deepest appreciation to all the readers and encouragers. Your support means so very much to me. May God bless you richly.

  1

  Nantucket Island

  April 20, 1852

  “What will you do now?” The gentle nudge came from Mrs. Franklin hours after Prosperity Jones had laid her mother to rest in the church graveyard.

  They sat on sturdy wooden chairs in the only home Prosperity could recall, while neighbors bustled about preparing a meal for those who condoled with her. She had attempted to help, but they had shooed her away from the kitchen. Stripped of the ability to do something useful, she battled a barrage of conflicting thoughts and feelings that ultimately came back to Mrs. Franklin’s question.

  What would she do?

  That question had never been broached until now. Prosperity always knew what she must do. As a child she had tended house for her oft-ailing mother. The year that fire had swept through town and the sea claimed her father’s life, she added nursing and managing their meager funds to her duties.

  Nearly six years later, Ma breathed her last, ushering in overpowering loneliness. Prosperity’s entire family was gone. No more could she turn to Pa for counsel or weep on Ma’s shoulder. She had been set adrift on a vast ocean.

  What would she do?

  At some point she must have donned the black cotton mourning gown. Somehow burial had been arranged and the funeral carried out. Even now, mere hours afterward, disjointed memories ricocheted through her mind: the deep grave carved into the cold earth, hymns so familiar they flowed by without notice, mourners weeping uncontrollably while she could not muster a tear. Well-meaning statements about God’s will drifted past like dandelion fluff on
a breeze.

  After tossing a handful of dirt on the plain pine coffin, she would have preferred to climb the dunes and gaze across the sea at the endless horizon, as she had for months after her father’s whaling ship disappeared. Instead, she had returned home with the neighbors who now buzzed about like a hive of bees. Only Mrs. Franklin’s inquiry had managed to break through the fog.

  What would she do?

  Before Ma’s passing, Prosperity had whiled away countless hours dreaming of her future.

  David.

  She touched the locket at her throat. He had given it to her after she agreed to marry him. It would one day contain tiny portraits of the children they hoped to have. Now it held a lock of his sandy blond hair. That was all she had to remember him by, for more than two years ago the Army had sent him to faraway Key West, and he would not return for six more years. What would she do until then?

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Franklin asked.

  Prosperity knit her fingers together and nodded.

  She was spared further questions by Mrs. Newton, who chased two boys from the kitchen with a scolding that they must wait until dinner was served.

  Mrs. Franklin chuckled. “I think he nabbed a biscuit off the tray. That was my Donnie back in the day.”

  Her voice blended into the drone of the half dozen women gathered in the tiny parlor. Outside on the porch, the men clustered together, supposedly to keep the children in the yard. Their guffaws punctuated the knowing whispers and pitying glances of the women sitting on the chairs loaned by generous neighbors. Aunt Florence held court in the opposite corner, informing all who would listen that she’d known her sister would die and was amazed she’d hung on so long in this dreadful, drafty shack.

  True, the rough slabwood walls held no charm and retained little of the stove’s heat. A scarred table occupied the center of the room, topped with a vase of daffodils, shadbush, and white violets brought by one of the ladies. Little else graced the room, for Prosperity had been forced to sell every item of value in the years following her father’s death. Nothing frivolous or beautiful remained. Even the cold gray of late April refused a ray of sunlight.

  “There is nothing left here,” she breathed.

  Mrs. Franklin, a kindly soul, clasped her hands with the warmth of a dear friend. “You must find the strength to go on. Your mother would have wanted it.”

  “I know.”

  Yet it was easier to say than to do. Once the condolers left, she would be alone with nothing but memories, a few personal items, and David’s letters. Those had brought comfort in the most difficult days. He had pledged a life together. David Latham never broke a promise.

  “He will return,” Mrs. Franklin stated with a knowing nod.

  “How did you know I was thinking of Mr. Latham?”

  Mrs. Franklin sighed, her gaze far off. “A woman gets a certain look when she recalls the man she loves.” She patted Prosperity’s hand. “Never fear. You only need write, and your lieutenant will come back from that wilderness.”

  “Key West.” It might as well be Tahiti, for both lay beyond reach. Ship passage, even in third class, cost far more than she could save.

  “Wherever it is, your young man will set sail for home the moment he receives your letter. Mark my words, he will not hesitate.”

  Prosperity wasn’t as certain. David had stressed that his tour of duty would last eight years. Even now she could recall how worry had pinched his brow that day. Eager to brush it away, she had promised to wait. A rare smile had flickered across his lips, and she had been pleased. She had not accounted for this day.

  “I doubt the Army will grant leave,” Prosperity murmured.

  “Nonsense. You must write. He will find a way to return to you. Then you can decide together what to do.”

  That was the fanciful talk of a woman seeking to comfort. The Army would not grant David leave because his fiancée’s mother had passed away. No, she must find her own way. She couldn’t stay in this house. That much was unavoidable. She could not afford to pay the overdue rent, least of all continue the lease of an entire house on her own. Mother’s rainy day jar had been emptied long ago. There were no secret bank accounts, no accounts at all. John and Olivia Jones had left this world as poor as they’d come into it.

  Mrs. Franklin, short and portly and pink-cheeked beneath her white lace cap, must have been chattering for some time, but just one statement caught Prosperity’s attention. “You can stay with us if your relations can’t take you in. Mr. Franklin would dearly enjoy your delicious currant cakes each morning.”

  Prosperity mustered a smile, though she could not manage the emotion to go with it. Her parents were gone, and life on Nantucket Island was slipping away.

  “You are very generous,” she said, though living with the Franklins was out of the question. No Jones accepted charity.

  “Only until your young man returns for you, of course.”

  Prosperity nodded, unable to speak over the knot in her throat. Two years had passed since David offered for her. Each morning and night she recalled his handsome visage. The cornflower-blue eyes and curly hair the color of sand brought a smile to her lips. How stiff he’d seemed when she first met him. She had laughed at his formal bow, and he had acted affronted, but in time she’d grown to appreciate his careful ways. Nothing was out of place. No possibility had gone unconsidered.

  He was a product of his demanding father and austere upbringing, so serious of temperament that she’d made silly faces at him to induce a laugh. Oh, how he resisted. First, the corner of his mouth would tick up a fraction. Then he would force a frown. Will would battle emotion until, in the end, a deep guffaw would burst out. Only then would the corners of his eyes crinkle and pleasure fill his gaze.

  If only she could see that again. If only she could hear his voice and feel how the very air shimmered when he walked into a room. Then she would know all was well. She could endure any hardship. Alas, her David was beyond reach, and she had only memories to lean upon.

  Over time his features had grown dim. Was that tiny mole above the right corner of his mouth or the left? Did his brows sweep high in an arc or duck low? Did the spectacles he used for reading leave the same red marks on the bridge of his nose? Had he succeeded in taming the tuft of frizz at the peak of his brow?

  She closed her eyes and tried to recall.

  The shifting shapes of memory faded like a dream in morning’s light.

  “He will return. You must believe it.” Mrs. Franklin’s voice dragged Prosperity back to the painful present.

  Until he returned . . . Her breath caught at the daunting prospect. Alone. Impoverished. Without a home.

  “He will.” Mrs. Franklin patted her hand for emphasis. “He is a gentleman.”

  A man of honor. Yes, David was that. He never failed to write each Sunday. The letters might arrive late or all in one batch, as was the case right now. She had not received a letter in nearly a month, but tomorrow might be the day. Until then she treasured each written word, reading the letters over and over until his sentences wove into the fabric of her days. He was saving all he could. He would marry once he had saved enough. If that came sooner rather than later, he might send for her. No woman on Nantucket or Key West could compare to her in beauty and intellect. He kept her portrait on the desk in his quarters.

  He was an ever-true, unshakable mark. To this she could cling.

  At her side, Mrs. Franklin rose, pulling Prosperity from her thoughts.

  Aunt Florence approached with a swish of her flounced skirts. “I’d like to speak to my niece.”

  Mrs. Franklin offered her condolences to Aunt Florence and trundled to the kitchen.

  Prosperity rose, aware that her future might depend on good relations with her last living blood relative, who had made the voyage to Nantucket Island from Boston with her husband. “Please have a seat, Aunt Florence.”

  How different Aunt was from her sister! While sunlight and love had crease
d Ma’s face into a starburst, Aunt’s face was pinched, her lips pressed into a white line. Thin and bony, Aunt wore a silk mourning gown that rustled as she moved. Its fine black-on-black striping took Prosperity’s breath away. Never would she touch, least of all wear, such a gown.

  Aunt Florence looked down her nose at the chair. “Given the option, I prefer to stand. After the grueling journey, I cannot endure another hard bench.”

  Prosperity swallowed. “I hope your accommodations were comfortable. Dumfrey Hotel is the finest on the island.”

  “It was barely habitable, but better than this,” Aunt sniffed with a caustic glance at Prosperity’s home. “My sister chose unwisely. I trust you have done better. Livvy wrote that you are engaged to marry an Army engineer.” She never once looked directly at Prosperity. “It’s certainly better than a whaler, though a true gentleman would have married and brought you with him.”

  “He is a true gentleman.”

  Aunt didn’t seem to notice that she had spoken. “I fear that your uncle and I must return to Boston at once. Harold can’t be away from the bank for long.” She opened the clasp on her elegant silk bag and pulled out a small ivory envelope that must have cost dearly at a stationer. “We want you to have this.”

  With trembling hand, Prosperity took the fat envelope. What on earth could it be? She’d met Florence just once before, on her aunt’s brief visit to the island when Prosperity was a child. Perhaps it was a note of condolence or one of Ma’s letters to her sister.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her throat dry.

  “Do understand that we can’t take you in.” Aunt Florence’s cold smile revealed perfectly white teeth. “Harry and his family visit often, and of course Amelia is still at home. Between friends and family, there isn’t a week that we don’t use every bed in the house.”

  Prosperity averted her gaze. “I understand.” Her last living relative was deserting her.

  Aunt waved a hand toward the envelope. “Use this to make your way in the world. Livvy wrote that you are quite capable of caring for yourself, but we wanted to give you this assistance until you can secure a position as a governess or housekeeper.”