Lydia shook her head. “Not really, but I saw him try to kiss you the other night—”
“Lydia,” she scolded. “You weren’t spying on me, were you?”
“I couldn’t help it. I was on my way to bed, and just happened to be sitting on the stairs.”
Eleanor cracked a smile. “Just happened to be sitting on the stairs, huh?”
Lydia answered with a grin. “It’s absolutely the best place to see things.”
“And what did you see that night?”
“That you had the awfullest—”
“Most awful,” Eleanor corrected.
“Most awful expression on your face when his lips touched your cheek.” She waited a moment then asked, “Why do you see him, anyway? Why don’t you see the pirate? He’s much more fun than stuffy old Sylvester.”
“Mr. Templeton is not interested in a woman like me, Lydia.”
Lydia took a powder puff and dabbed it over her face, leaving traces of talc on her cheeks. “Why not?”
“He just isn’t.” Eleanor’s voice was sharper than she’d meant it to be.
“Explain it to me,” Lydia begged.
Eleanor expelled a sigh. “All right. Remember the night of the party, when you first saw Mr. Templeton?” When Lydia nodded, Eleanor continued. “Do you remember the woman with the bright red hair and the beautiful white gown?”
Lydia thought a moment. “The one who looked like a fairy princess?”
Eleanor raised one eyebrow. “That’s the one.”
Lydia looked away, thoughtful. “So that’s the sort of woman a man like the pirate wants?”
“Exactly.”
Lydia flounced away, dancing around the room. “I’ll be that kind of woman one day.”
Eleanor laughed. “Oh, my sweet girl, you’ll never be that kind of woman.”
Lydia looked hurt. “Why not? Won’t I be pretty enough?”
Eleanor grabbed her and hugged her. “You will be very pretty, but you’ll also be very, very smart. And I’m afraid men like Mr. Templeton don’t appreciate women who can pronounce words with more than two syllables. I doubt that a woman like that has ever heard of the word ‘abstemious,’ much less know what it means.”
Lydia patted at Eleanor’s hair. “Well, that’s stupid.”
Eleanor laughed again. “That pretty much explains it, dear.”
Lydia crawled up onto Eleanor’s lap and surveyed herself in the mirror. “Mama wants you to marry Sylvester.”
“Yes,” Eleanor answered wearily, running a brush through Lydia’s silky hair. “She mentions that to me, oh, perhaps daily.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“It would make your mother and father happy,” Eleanor reminded her.
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t make you very happy,” she answered, with a wisdom that was almost frightening.
That was true. Eleanor had already decided that she had endured one unhappy marriage, and she would not go into another, merely to satisfy her sister-in-law. Not that she would be truly unhappy with Sylvester. He was kind and generous and…quite bland. He had been very attentive, and in Eleanor’s mind, there was no doubt that one day he would propose.
Lydia slid off Eleanor’s lap and crawled onto the bed. “Did you know that a porcupine can float?”
Eleanor chuckled at Lydia’s proclivity for suddenly changing the subject. “I didn’t know that,” she responded, trying to shove a wayward tress behind her ear.
“Have you practiced today?” she asked.
Lydia was on her back, studying the ceiling. “Yes, didn’t you hear me?”
“I’ve been out all morning, at the orphanage.”
Lydia slid off the bed, retrieved Eleanor’s brush from the dressing table and began pulling it through her long, wavy hair. “How, exactly, does a child become an orphan?”
Eleanor reached into her mother’s old jewelry box, pulled out a plain comb, and fastened the unruly lock. “Many of them were found as infants, left on the steps by someone unknown.”
“Like the ladies who have babies and aren’t married,” Lydia offered. She snorted a laugh. “Butterfly straightened me out on that one. Papa had told me a woman couldn’t have a baby unless she was married, and Mama wouldn’t discuss the subject with me at all.”
Eleanor couldn’t stop a smile. Poor Calvin. He was absolutely no match for Lydia. And there were times when Eleanor thought that perhaps both Willa and Cal were afraid of their precocious child.
“There are other reasons, too. Sometimes a child’s parents die, and there is no one else to care for them.” She immediately thought of Victor and wondered if Dante Templeton had talked with the boy, because he appeared to have quieted down some since the episode with the fireplace flue.
“If Mama and Papa died, would I go to an orphanage?”
Lydia’s voice was so wistful, Eleanor’s stomach clenched. “Your mama and papa aren’t going to die, sweetheart.”
“But, would I, if they did?”
“Certainly not. I’m your family, I’d take care of you.” She gathered Lydia into her embrace.
Lydia stayed close. “What’s it like out there?”
Eleanor straightened the cameo pin on the high collar of her gown. “Oh, it’s not so bad, I guess. At least the children are loved and cared for. The nuns have devoted their lives to them.”
Suddenly Willa appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Conway is here,” she said, her voice filled with eagerness. “Lydia, don’t bother your aunt while she’s trying to get ready,” she scolded.
Lydia wrinkled her nose and flounced past her mother, while Eleanor’s stomach went hollow and she felt a quick bite of nausea.
In the past month that Eleanor had been seeing Sylvester, she had also seen much of Dante Templeton. In a different way, of course.
She had learned from the nuns that Dante’s business often took him to sea. She had also learned that his business was not whaling or fishing of any kind, but something quite unusual. The nuns hadn’t been able to describe exactly what he did, but they were in awe of him, nevertheless.
And his visits to the orphanage were frequent, when he was not away on business. He hadn’t truly avoided her, but he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to engage in any conversation, either. But he seemed affable, which gave her the courage to ask him about her whaler again.
She had her chance one morning as she left the music room. He was coming out of the office.
“Mr. Templeton?”
He offered a quick smile. “Dante, please.”
“Yes, of course,” she said with a nod. “Might I have a word with you?”
He appeared wary, as if remembering their last encounter in the orphanage hallway. “Is it Victor again?”
She waved his question away. “No. Thanks to you, Victor has been much better behaved. It’s…I have another topic to speak to you about.”
His gaze raked her, and she suddenly thought she might lose her courage.
“Yes?”
Suddenly nervous, she drew in a deep breath and expelled it quickly. “I’ve wondered if perhaps you have changed your mind about releasing my whaler.”
His eyes darkened and his features hardened. “Never.”
“But—”
“Eleanor, your whaler will never be used to hunt whales again.”
She realized that his use of her first name no longer bothered her, but his pomposity did. It also made her irrational. “Mr. Templeton, one day soon I will remarry, and—”
“You will?” He grazed her with his haughty gaze. “To whom, might I ask?”
Furious at his surprise, she retorted, “Sylvester Conway.”
He barked an incredulous laugh. “Does his mother know yet?”
Eleanor opened her mouth, then shut it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He waved the question away, still smiling, as if what she’d told him was one big joke.
That fueled her anger. “Sylvester Conway has more influence i
n Boston than even you, the great Dante Templeton.” Her face was flushed now; she could feel the heat creeping up her neck, into her cheeks. “He will find a way to force you to free my ship.”
Why had she said that? None of it was true. Absolutely not a word of it.
His gaze continued to take in her appearance. “You are still wearing widow’s weeds.”
Taken off guard, she blinked and mentally shook herself. “I…yes.”
His small smile didn’t reach his eyes. If anything, it made them colder. “Do you enjoy hiding behind those hideous black gowns?”
“I am not hiding—”
“Of course you are. Why, if you were to dress like a normal woman, a real man might notice you.”
She expelled a screech of exasperation and outrage. “You pompous, arrogant, vain peacock!”
He ignored her and touched her hair, causing her to flinch. “And if even a single strand of hair should escape that prim hairdo, I have no doubt you would run for the mirror and scrape it back into place. Any attempt at all to rediscover your womanhood would send you scurrying, wouldn’t it?”
She was so angry, she thought she might faint. She had to get control. She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly. “How I dress and wear my hair is none of your business,” she managed, wanting desperately to double up her fist and punch him. “And neither,” she added, “is my womanhood.”
“I’m grateful for that,” he answered, almost congenially. “My schedule is full enough and believe me, madam, turning you into a real woman would require more time than I have to spend.”
Unable to restrain herself, she drew back, raised her hand, and slapped him full across the face. Her hand stung. How wonderful that had felt!
They stared at one another, he in disbelief, she in amazement that she had actually struck him.
Eleanor recovered first and forced herself to smile up at him. “Thank you so very much. I feel ever so much better now.” She marched off, feeling relieved until she remembered that she had lied to him about her and Sylvester. If their conversation ever got back to him, she would be mortified.
And she had struck someone. That was simply poor manners. It wasn’t like her, not at all. But never in her entire life had she felt such surging anger for another person.
Stroking his cheek, Dante watched her leave, a small smile lifting his mouth. She might be plain, and she was annoying as hell, and intelligent to boot, but damn! She had fire. And courage—a rare trait to find in a man, much less a woman.
He suddenly remembered what he had learned about Amos Rayburn, and wondered if all of her fire would sputter and die if she ever discovered the truth about the man.
Dante knew Sylvester Conway. Their paths had crossed often. Sylvester had once told him he admired Dante for his unorthodox work and had become one of Dante’s supporters. And, Dante thought with a smile, Sylvester still lived with his mother.
Dante almost chuckled aloud, yet there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as well. She might appear bland and meek to some, but Dante knew that beneath those widow’s weeds and that scraped back hairdo and sensible shoes there lurked a woman of incredible passion.
A woman who had thrown her head back and actually laughed at him. At him. That had rankled. A woman who had hauled off and slapped him. A slap, he thought, wincing, that carried quite a punch.
She was like no woman he had ever met. He normally didn’t even glance at women like her. His women were beautiful, and if not outwardly so, than inwardly, because their adoration for him had shone in their eyes. His women wore fine clothes, enjoyed flaunting their bosoms and cooed and tittered when he took them to bed. His women spread their legs eagerly, because he was the master lover. They all had told him so.
He frowned, suddenly morose. His women, he realized, were whatever he wanted them to be. They were trained, like hunting dogs, to do his bidding. And suddenly he wasn’t very pleased with them, or himself.
But if the insipid Sylvester Conway thought he could handle Eleanor, he was wrong. She might, however, Dante thought with a sly smile, be a match for Theodora Conway, Sylvester’s mother and the matriarch of the family.
He decided it was time to look up Sylvester and invite him over for a drink.
Eight
The more Eleanor thought about her encounter with Dante, the angrier she got. Just who did he think he was, acting so surprised that she should remarry? Not that she was going to, but he had acted like no man on earth would take her as his wife.
As she passed the office door, she felt the urge to vent her anger. Sister Mary Francis looked up from her desk when she entered. “Yes, dear?”
Eleanor released a breath. “I have just had the most annoying encounter with Mr. Templeton.”
Sister Mary Francis’ smile reached her eyes. “Oh, he can be a frustrating person to encounter, I agree. I have had that experience for years.”
Eleanor resisted the urge to speak harshly, reminding herself that it wasn’t the nun who incurred her wrath. “I have no doubt of that. He is by far the most exasperating man I have ever met.”
The nun’s expression continued to be sunny. “Perhaps before you get too addled over Dante, you should learn more about his background.”
Eleanor raised a cynical eyebrow. Where had she heard that line before? “Why?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm, “was he left on your doorstep or something?”
The nun nodded serenely. “Yes. He was.”
Eleanor felt immediate remorse at her derision. “I hope you’re joking.”
“Oh, no. Both Dante, who was barely two, and his older brother, Damien, who was a few years older, were dropped at my door like kittens in a basket.”
The nun related many facts about the Templeton brothers, most of which Eleanor could scarcely give credence to. Had they not been told to her by a Catholic nun, she might not have believed a word of it.
“And Dante was quite a handful, I will admit, but I guess that’s why he’s so good with Victor.” Sister Mary Francis laughed lightly, the lines around her mouth softening.
“He has often said that he was Victor, or a boy just like him. He was fortunate to have Damien, for as they got older, Damien proved to be the sensible one. And Damien was the only person Dante listened to, or respected, for a very, very long time.”
It scarcely made any sense to Eleanor. “Were they here long?”
“Only until Damien turned fifteen. Then he took Dante and they went to sea as cabin boys. It was there that…”
She sighed and shook her head solemnly. “It was there that Damien drowned. I don’t think Dante is over his brother’s death to this day. He mourns him always, and in his heart, he blames the captain for his loss.” Her expression remained grave. “Until he can let go and forgive, he’ll never heal.”
Eleanor thanked the sister for the enlightening information, and let her go back to work. Eleanor, however, felt too scattered to return to the music room. Her discovery about Dante had sparked intense interest in learning more about him.
As she left the orphanage, something Amos had said while they were at sea came back to nag at her. The next thing she knew, she was on her way home to rummage through what was left of Amos’s things, hoping what she wanted would be there.
Once in her room, she dragged out his old sea trunk and there, at the bottom, beneath a wool coat and some tattered woolen socks, she found the log from The Dragon.
She closed the door to her room, curled up on her bed, and began to read. She hadn’t gotten very far when she found what she was looking for, and it made her heart sink. With a resigned sigh, she tucked the log into her satchel and hurried off to discover if what she had read was the truth.
She stepped into the merchant’s office, the room that had started all of her misery, and felt a bite of anger. It was here that she had learned that Amos had betrayed her. That’s how she had felt—betrayed. Left with nothing. She shook off her feelings and went in search of someone who could
help with her current questions.
She glanced into a room where a harried-looking little man with a mop of yellow hair sat working some numbers. “Yes’m?”
Eleanor stepped into the room. “I’m looking for a crew member from the old ship The Dragon. A Mr. Galvin.”
“Cappy Galvin?”
Eleanor felt a wave of excitement. “Yes. Cappy Galvin.”
“Well, Cappy can be found down at the Butter and Eggs,” the little man answered.
Eleanor frowned. “Butter and eggs?”
“It’s a tavern down on the docks,” he explained, giving her more complete directions. “But you take care,” he warned. “The Butter and Eggs is no place for a lady.”
Eleanor thanked him for his concern, left the office and walked to the waterfront. The smell of the sea brought back waves of memories. She waited for the feelings of dread that she’d had to overcome once Amos died and she’d had to aid in getting the vessel back to port. By the time they returned, she’d absolutely despised the briny smell and everything associated with it. Oddly, it didn’t bother her now.
She glanced ahead of her, noting the Butter and Eggs tavern sign hanging from two rusty hinges. Painted in the background were spirelike inflorescent yellow and orange flowers that resembled small snapdragons. The foliage consisted of small, linear, bluish-green leaves. Despite the beauty of the flowers, it was an odd name for a tavern.
An elderly man with a face as weather-worn as cowhide sat out front, smoking a pipe. Beneath a filthy knitted cap were wisps of downy hair, hanging nearly to his white, caterpillar eyebrows.
He glanced up at Eleanor. “You lost, missy?”
She shook her head. “I’m looking for Cappy Galvin.”
The man stroked his stubbled chin. “Whatcha want ’em fer?”
“I’m looking for some information.” She saw him hesitate, then added, “I know him. We…have mutual acquaintances.”
The old man looked her up and down, clearly skeptical. He tossed his head toward the door. “Inside. He’s always there.” He laughed, a wet, wheezy sound. “Hope ya find him sober.”
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