by Beth White
“That was right after I got sent down.” He tried to think past the row with his father over that fiasco, but came up against a blank wall. “I imagine Grandfa was going to try to talk sense into me.”
“Uncle Rafa admired your grandfather very much, even though they had been on opposite sides in the wars. Admiral Lord St. Clair had saved Uncle’s life at the siege of Gibraltar.”
“Huh. Then your uncle is a Spaniard?”
“He was. After the War for Independence, he served as assistant envoy with the Spanish ambassador to New York. In fact, Maddy was born there. But President Washington wanted Uncle Rafa on his foreign policy staff—that’s another long story I won’t go into now—so Uncle swore the oath of allegiance to the United States. When the Capitol Building was finished, he and Aunt Lyse and Maddy moved to Washington.”
Charlie scratched his head. “Then your Aunt Lyse is American? Is she your father’s sister? Or your mother’s?”
Fiona laughed. “I warned you it’s complicated. My father, Aunt Lyse, Uncle Luc-Antoine, and three other siblings all grew up in Mobile. They were French-Creole, but somehow the family managed to hang on to their property under the British and Spanish occupations. The Spanish governor awarded this chunk of land here at Navy Cove to my papa and Luc-Antoine for service during the invasions of Mobile and Pensacola. They were allowed to keep it when West Florida finally came under US control, on condition that they agreed to maintain the shipyard that serves Fort Bowyer.”
“Your parents . . . where are they now?”
She lost a little of her rosy color but said steadily, “They were killed at sea over two years ago, on a merchant ship attacked by a British sloop-of-war. Charlie—you mustn’t tell anyone here that you’re British. I’m not sure they’d let you live long enough to be remanded to the authorities in Mobile.”
3
Sehoy stared up at the giant hulk of a half-completed ship taking up nearly two hundred feet of the Navy Cove beach. Armed with hammers and wearing aprons that bulged with pegs and nails, some twenty to thirty half-dressed carpenters crawled about the vessel, clinging to her curved hull like a colony of worker ants. Having grown up in the interior of the Mississippi Territory, Sehoy knew little about oceangoing ships—barely enough to understand that the bottom was called the keel, port was on the left, and starboard on the right—but even to her untrained eye this one was a thing of beauty. Her cousin Léon, the designer and engineer of the family business, clearly possessed an extraordinary talent for the art and science of shipbuilding.
“Hey! Sehoy! Up here!”
Shading her eyes against the fierce sun, she spotted a lanky figure teetering upon the topmost row of planking, ten feet above the ground. “Oliver? Good gracious, be careful!” She picked up her skirts and hurried toward him.
He laughed, but lowered his arms and sat down with his long legs hanging over the edge of the hull. “What are you doing here? Where’s Fiona?”
In the shade of the ship, Sehoy craned her neck to look up at Oliver. “She’s making breakfast for the man in the storeroom. Or possibly lunch. I’m not sure what time it is.” She shrugged. “I needed to get out of the house.”
“I can tell you right now it’s lunchtime.” He squinted up at the sun, directly overhead. “I was just about to ask Léon if we could stop and eat. Want to join me? I brought an extra sandwich.”
“I suppose I could eat.” Nonplussed, she watched him jump to his feet and nimbly pick his way to the back of the ship, where Léon crouched in deep conversation with a couple of other men. When Oliver spoke to him, Léon nodded absently and went back to his discussion.
While she waited for Oliver to scramble down a ladder to the ground and slip on the shirt that had been tied about his waist, she wondered at the general sense of energy that permeated the place. According to Nardo Smith, the shipyard had been commissioned last summer. With a mess hall and barracks for the carpenters, plus a small office building and the ship frame itself, it was turning Navy Cove into quite a center of modern industry. Nothing was as she remembered from the visit with her family during Mardi Gras season a few years ago.
She’d never forget the laughter and games and stories of the Lanier children—bossy Léon, adventurous Judah, and the twins Fiona and Sullivan, two sides of a bright coin. A plethora of cousins had been at the party too, including Oliver—closest to her in age but whom she barely remembered because of his tongue-tied shyness. Instead she had developed a painful case of unrequited love for sea-mad Sullivan.
Oliver swung toward her now, the crooked Lanier smile upon his freckled, sunburnt face, auburn-streaked hair bound back in an untidy queue, and the wrinkled shirt hanging loose at his hips. The admiration in his gray eyes was gratifying.
Sullivan was a prisoner of war. She must not cease praying for him until he was released.
She resisted the urge to smile back at Oliver with immodest eagerness. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way? I just wanted to see the ship and walk on the beach a bit.”
“You’re welcome to come anytime.” Oliver halted in front of her, extending a large hand scarred with multiple scrapes and cuts.
Common civility demanded that she place her hand in his and allow him to carry it to his lips. Oliver might be bashful, but he clearly possessed the address for which the Lanier men had become famous.
Do not blush, she ordered herself.
To cover her confusion, she turned to watch a pelican dive for a fish. “I hardly know where I belong anymore.”
“You belong here with us, you know that.” Oliver moved to stand beside her, towering over her by several inches. How tall he had grown in four years!
“I probably should have gone to Oklahoma with my people.” She held out her hands, bronze-colored hands with short, broken nails and unladylike scars across the knuckles from dressing game and cooking and handling grasses the Creek women wove into baskets.
“Sehoy.” Oliver grabbed one of her hands and held it this time. “We are your people. Our great-grandmothers were sisters.” When she looked up at him, he smiled. “Well, I’m not sure about the generations, but the Laniers come from the Koasati just like you do. No more talk about Oklahoma. Let’s find a place in the shade to eat our sandwiches. I’m starved!”
Swinging hands, they walked together toward a small wood-framed building that stood a short distance from the beach. Its long, narrow windows stood open to the sea breeze, and from inside it Sehoy could hear a rumble of male voices and the metallic clank of dishes. But instead of heading for the open doorway, Oliver led her around the side of the building, where a couple of pine benches squatted against the wall.
“Is it all right if we eat outside?” He brushed sand off one of the benches and gestured for her to sit. “The men’s language is . . . a bit rough for a lady.”
Pleased at his courtesy, she sat down, arranging her skirts. “This is lovely.” The building provided a shallow bank of shade, and she had an unobstructed view of the glittering surface of the bay.
“Good. I’ll be right back.” Oliver disappeared into the mess hall and returned a few minutes later with a pair of thick ham sandwiches.
With a smile of thanks, Sehoy took the one he offered her. “I should have brought food with me. Didn’t realize the time.”
Oliver sat down beside her. “Is it all right if I return thanks?”
“Of course.”
Oliver’s voice was quiet but sincere. “Thank you, Father, for this gift of food. And thank you for a pretty girl to talk to while I eat.”
Involuntarily she giggled and looked at Oliver. He opened one twinkling gray eye, and she burst out laughing. He seemed to have overcome a good deal of his initial bashfulness. “Doesn’t Fiona ever bring you boys lunch?” she asked, nibbling at her sandwich.
“Fiona?” He snorted. “She’s training horses all day long. And anyway, she’s my first cousin, might as well be my sister. That’s no fun.” He settled back against the wall and addressed his own
food with enthusiasm.
“Hm. I suppose.” She relaxed, enjoying his quiet company and the beautiful surroundings. “What kind of boat is this you’re building? Who is it for?”
Oliver nearly choked on his laughter. “Don’t let Uncle Luc-Antoine hear you calling it a boat! This, mademoiselle, is a ship—a brigantine to be precise. The United States Navy commissioned her to help boot the Brits off our land and out of our waters.”
“I didn’t know the United States had a navy.”
“Of course we have a navy.” Oliver sounded mildly annoyed. “What do you think Sullivan has been doing all these years?”
“I suppose I thought he’d sailed on one of the family’s merchant ships.” She didn’t want to think about Sullivan being held prisoner, far from his home and family. She looked at Oliver, who favored Sullivan, except for the reddish hair. Sullivan had always had a wild mane of dark blond curls. “This family is ocean crazy. Didn’t you want to go to sea too?”
“Of course I like the water. But I’d rather be home with the folks. I’m training to be a bar pilot like Papa.”
“What does a bar pilot do?”
“We escort ships through the channel and up to Mobile, keep them from grounding out on the sandbars in the bay. But I’m finding I like carpentry just as much.” Oliver gestured toward the ship under construction. “It’s hard work, but the pay is good. I’m saving for a ship of my own.”
Sehoy nodded, though the concept of enjoying one’s work was a bit of a foreign idea. The men of her family were hunters, trappers, and traders, nomadic and restless. The women followed them, cared for them, and raised their children. The families were close and loyal, but unsentimental. She couldn’t remember a time when her father had more than patted her head in approval.
She glanced up at Oliver. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to leave such a beautiful home.”
He laughed. “Well, when the breeze dies down and the bugs drive you mad, you might change your mind. How long did it take you to get here from Horseshoe Bend?”
“A couple of days.” It had been a long, hard trip overland with the interpreter Desi Palomo, who had, upon discovering her connection to the Laniers, offered to travel with her as far as Mobile. She hadn’t wanted the American’s help, though Mama’s dying wish was that she accept. Palomo was a charming man, and his gift for language was apparent—he addressed her in fluent Muskogee, the tongue of her people—but she had treated him to a dignified silence except when absolutely necessary. She was glad when they parted ways at the ferry, he to cross the bay and report to the commander at Fort Charlotte, Sehoy to continue the journey in Nardo Smith’s pirogue along the eastern shore to Mobile Point. “Do you know Desi Palomo?”
“Sure, he grew up with Uncle Rafa and Aunt Lyse’s family. They practically adopted him. ’Course, he’s been gone to the northeast for . . . I don’t know, a long time. So he’s come back?”
“Yes. Apparently he’s been attached to General Jackson’s staff as an interpreter, and they sent him ahead to Mobile to prepare for the general’s arrival.”
Oliver whistled. “Really? The general is coming here?”
“Mr. Palomo wouldn’t say much, but I gather they think the British are planning to attack New Orleans and take control of the Mississippi—”
“—with Mobile as the jumping-off point.” Oliver jumped to his feet. “I have to tell Papa and Léon.”
“But—”
“I’m glad you came, Sehoy, and you’re welcome anytime, but I’ve got to get back to work now. Here, you can have the rest of my sandwich.” He thrust the half-eaten sandwich at her and tore off across the sand toward the construction site.
Sehoy stared after him, mouth ajar. Men were such volatile creatures. One minute flirting, the next set to grab a gun and fire at some real or imagined enemy. Perhaps after all she’d go back to the house and see what Fiona was up to.
She knew she shouldn’t hover. She’d brought Charlie what he needed to shave and dress. He was a grown man, and if he needed her, he would call.
But as she and the bay stallion she planned to sell as a cavalry mount worked on disciplines critical for hand-to-hand conflict, Fiona kept an ear open for Charlie’s voice. He was very quiet. What if he’d fainted again and cracked open his head? What if he bled to death while she was out here with Tully?
Carefully using knees and reins to coax Tully into a foreleg half-pirouette called “On the Forehand About,” she heard only the omnipresent sounds of the water, seagulls squabbling over food, and in the distance, the shipbuilders shouting to one another over hammers banging and metal clanging at the forge—the usual comforting sounds of a day at Navy Cove.
Perhaps she should go inside to check on Charlie. But if she did, the rhythm of Tully’s lesson would be broken and she would have to work twice as hard next time to straighten him out.
She kept working, riddled with guilt over Charlie, as well as the uncomfortable thought that she seemed to have somehow offended poor Sehoy, who had inexplicably wandered off alone this morning after breakfast. Until yesterday, the daily routine of cooking and cleaning for her three menfolk plus the horses had been fairly simple, but now there were two guests depending on her. Unbidden, she wished her mother were here to advise her. Mama seemed to have had a bent for caretaking ingrained in the very fiber of her being, and she’d tried to teach Fiona how to develop and exercise it.
But, no, Fiona must turn herself into the veriest tomboy, tramping about after her brothers, trading her skirts for breeches at the least excuse. She looked down at herself ruefully. As usual when working the horses, she wore a pair of tall riding boots over Sullivan’s outgrown, cast-off tan breeches—because after all, one couldn’t train a cavalry horse in skirts.
No wonder Mama had despaired of her only daughter ever becoming a lady. No wonder she’d asked Aunt Lyse to take charge of Fiona’s education, effectively sending her into exile.
And here she was, drifting back into the same old habits. Some days she forgot to change back into her dress, even when the horses’ training was done for the day. The men of her family seemed not to mind, but now . . .
Now there was Charlie Kincaid in her home, and what would he think to find a young lady dressed with so little regard for propriety? Even Sehoy would expect better of her.
Like it or not, she was going to have to change her ways.
She sighed and patted Tully’s neck. “Come on, let’s get you settled with a nice handful of hay. Your work’s done for the day, sir.” Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she neck reined the bay toward the barn.
And found Charlie sitting on a box in the shade beside its open door. Judging by his relaxed posture and amused expression, he had been watching her for some time.
She reined Tully in with uncharacteristic awkwardness. “What are you doing out of bed?” She slid down from the saddle and pulled the horse with her toward her crack-brained patient.
He grinned, apparently not intimidated by her scowl. “That’s a prime bit of blood you have there. I’d buy him off you in a heartbeat if I had the blunt.”
“No you wouldn’t. He’s earmarked for the cavalry.” Pushing Tully’s head away when he blew in her ear, she grudgingly added, “You look better.” Sullivan’s clothes fit Charlie remarkably well, and his still-damp hair turned out to be a dark umber with streaks of sienna.
“I’m certain I smell better too.” He levered himself to his feet, wincing. “Apologies if I’ve overstepped my bounds by coming out to watch the show, but I thought a little fresh air might help put me on the mend.”
She stared at him, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic. His expression was bland, unreadable. Finally she huffed and led Tully into the barn without another word, then set about currying the horse. When she’d finished, she gave him a handful of hay and let him out to pasture.
Coming back to the barn, slapping dust from her hands and the seat of her breeches, she found Charlie leaning over a stall do
or, smiling at a pair of newborn goat twins lying in the hay with their mother. They snuggled together, nudging their mama’s belly in competition for a favorite teat.
She propped her arms on the top of the door beside him. “Aren’t they the cutest things? Born just yesterday afternoon and already rivals.”
“It’s a male trait, I suppose. I never could stand for my brothers to best me at anything. And once I got to Eton . . .” He shook his head. “That was the source of my trouble there.”
“Do you remember why you got sent down?”
When they were younger, he’d ignored her questions about his disciplinary action, but apparently he’d gotten over the embarrassment, for he laughed. “Bat guano.”
“What?”
“I was a Scottish lad at Eton, expected to have neither native intelligence nor culture. One of the masters saw promise however, and promoted me over some older boys into the scientific society.”
“You must have been proud.”
“Say, rather, terrified.” He shuddered. “My house captain found out one of my papers had been sent up for good and made my life miserable.”
“Sent up for good?”
He reddened. “It’s a form of recognition for outstanding work, which the heads store in the College Archives. I didn’t like being known as a brain. I wanted to be on the rowing team.”
“Hm.” She studied him. Precocious, competitive, self-effacing. And a good storyteller. “What does that have to do with bat guano?”
“Oh, that.” He grinned. “The paper that was recognized was about the chemical efficacy of excrement as a fertilizer. Percy, the house captain I mentioned, said it was hooey. He took to calling me ‘MacGuano’ and making me empty and clean the chamber pots every morning while the others ate breakfast.”