Prize of My Heart (11 page)

No, that could not be right. Lorena was feeling ill before she’d hit her head. And now she was shipbound on the
Lady Julia
. What she should have done was gone directly to the brig’s captain, she realized too late. But what of George? He’d stood there in the hold, silent and unmoved, while she lay ill. Why hadn’t he stayed the ship?

And what had happened to Drew?

The red-haired woman frowned at the confusion on Lorena’s face. “I am Jane Ellery, traveling with my husband and his brother to North Yorkshire. We are to be cabin companions, Miss Huntley. When you’re feeling better, perhaps you’ll eat some crackers. I believe it will help.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ellery,” Lorena croaked, her throat raw and strained, though already her stomach was feeling a trifle more settled. “Tell me. Have you seen a young fair-haired boy anywhere on this boat?”

“Jane. Please. And no. You must be mistaken, Miss Huntley. There are no children—”

A sharp knock silenced her, followed by George’s voice projecting through the slotted door, “Mrs. Ellery, I hear voices. How is she?”

Opening the door, he popped his head in without waiting for permission. “Why, Lorena, you’re pale as a ghost.”

Lorena did not trust the sincerity of his anxious expression. She eyed him warily, unwilling to believe the worst . . . that he could have had a hand in her being stuck on this brig. Worse, that he’d allow anything to happen to Drew. George had his faults, but he wasn’t evil.

“Mr. Louder, please. Miss Huntley is still indisposed.” Jane Ellery stepped before him, blocking his view. “However, when she is feeling up to it, I would suggest you take her above for a walk on deck. I have some experience with seasickness, and it does relieve the nausea. In a measure, at least.”

“No, Jane, wait,” Lorena called before George could be dismissed. “I must speak with him on an urgent matter.”

Jane hesitated, but seemed to reconsider the necessity for propriety given the circumstances. “Very well, let me cover you.” She dug through her trunk and produced a paisley Kashmir shawl, which she wound around Lorena.

Lorena spilled a tear at the kindness. Jane offered an encouraging smile, then bent down to collect the commode from the deck. She scooped Lorena’s white day dress, bonnet, and cranberry floral spencer off the opposite bunk and into the crook of her free arm. “I shall see about getting these cleaned for you. In the meantime, Mr. Louder, see if she won’t take some more salt water.”

“You have been too kind, Mrs. Ellery, bless you.” Stepping aside to let her pass, George glanced briefly into the commode, likely drawn by morbid curiosity against his will. He gave a flinch of disgust and slipped inside the spartan quarters.

Mrs. Ellery quit the stateroom, closing the door softly behind her.

At the woman’s retreating footsteps, George attempted to touch her arm, but Lorena shrugged him off.

“What’s happening, George? Please tell me that Drew is safe. Where is he?”

He studied her intently. “You have my word. Drew is safe. It is you who worry me. You have been grievously ill, in addition to striking your head, and even now I can see you are still weak and pale. Pray, don’t excite yourself unnecessarily. You’ll grow unwell all over again.”

Lorena wanted to breathe easier at his words, but her pulse quickened in suspense of what news he was holding back. “What is it you’re not telling me? How do you know Drew is safe?”

“When last I saw him, Temperance had him firmly by the hand as they stood on the wharf. While we were searching here, he was across the street, patronizing the waterfront candy shop with the dime I’d paid him for helping load my bags.”

Lorena was finding George’s manner more and more disturbing. “You gave him money for candy and didn’t tell me? You knew he was at the shops? Explain to me why I am here then, sick in the cabin of some outbound vessel, when I should be standing on the dock with Drew and Temperance. The nausea came on me suddenly and for no apparent reason. I stumbled and, in trying to regain my balance, struck my head. But you were there. You saw. You could have helped me get off this brig before it sailed.”

George swallowed as though readying to speak, but no explanation was forthcoming. He simply stared back, shamefaced.

“Answer me, George!” Frustration rose in her so great, a sob welled up within her.

His brow furrowed the longer he continued to study her. “You shall see, Lorena, once you’re faring better and have time to dwell on matters, that the situation is not so unfortunate after all.” His voice was a malevolent whisper.

Lorena thought him absurd. He was truly beginning to frighten her. “There is no time for reflection, George. We must act quickly before the
Lady Julia
moves farther out to sea. You must go to the captain. Perhaps he can drop his longboat to row me back.”

“There will be no going back,” he announced with finality. “Even if the captain were agreeable to sacrificing his longboat and several of his crew, which is entirely unlikely, we have been too long under sail. But I have seen to everything. I’ve secured your passage and arranged your lodging in this stateroom with Mrs. Ellery. She’s a lovely woman, don’t you agree? Look how attentive she has been already. I hope you don’t mind, but I think I shall make her a gift of one of your mince pies. It’s the least we can offer for her trouble. Don’t fear, my little girl. I shall provide and care for you. You understand now, don’t you, Lorena, how far I’m willing to go to prove my devotion? You’ll see, we’ll be very happy together.”

Lorena felt sick to her stomach in a way that had nothing to do with her earlier nausea. “You’ve tricked me! And what of my family? They are sure to be sick with worry, wondering what has become of me.”

George’s grin sent a foreboding down Lorena’s spine. “I have taken care of that, as well. The note I passed to Temperance on the wharf? It tells a romantic tale of how you reconsidered my proposal and at the last minute decided to accompany me on my voyage. We are to be married in North Yorkshire. It explains how, in fearing they would try to discourage you from leaving, you chose to say nothing directly, but left me to write this parting note on behalf of us both.”

The insensitivity of George’s cool, frank tone rang in her ears, numbing Lorena with shock, even as she tried to absorb the horror of what he was admitting to. “You planned this? Planned that I should be shipbound on the
Lady Julia
 . . . helpless?”

“Bound for England with no money, no belongings, no contacts, dependent on me for your very survival, you shall experience firsthand, Lorena, how very well I can provide and see to your needs. You need me, Lorena. You’ve always needed me. Now circumstances will give you the opportunity to see just how true that is.”

“And did you have a hand, then, in my taking ill?” A twitch in his left eye confirmed it. “George, what have you done?”

“Forgive me, that. I never meant you should have become so very sick. I must have slipped too much vomit powder into your tea while you were removing the mince pies from the oven.”

“Vomit powder?” Lorena felt faint, reeling from the depth of George’s betrayal.

“Just enough to prevent you from disembarking. Truly, what alternative did I have? You would not agree to accompany me otherwise.” Righteous anger fired from George’s dark eyes. “I pleaded that you become my wife. I offered you everything. But you refused me and proceeded to keep company with that, that, ugh . . . pirate!”

“You have never been more wrong. Captain Talvis is not the pirate. He is not the one who’s stolen me from my home!”

Lorena could see her words stung. George stumbled backward for a seat on the opposite bunk. He slipped his folded hands between his knees and hung his head, shoulders slumped in exasperation. He raked a hand through his chestnut waves as, slowly, he raised his face to hers. “Oh, Lorena, can you not find room in that Christian heart of yours for forgiveness? Make the best of this journey. Away from the demands and responsibilities of your family, I know we shall find great happiness together. Will you not at least try?”

Lorena thought him mad.

Her soul cried out in sadness. Who would read the psalms to Drew at night? Who would pour Papa’s evening tea and take it to his study as he sat at his desk, chest-deep in ship designs? Who would lecture Temperance against spying on the shipwrights who had removed their shirts while toiling under a hot sun?

Her gaze narrowed angrily over George’s conservative features—the wide forehead, the aquiline nose and angular jaw. And in the midst of her helplessness, Lorena remembered her faith. She would not accept this dire fate.

“Understand this, George Louder. I have no intention of sailing to England. Even less of ever marrying you.” She attempted to stand, but between the lightness of her head and the deck rolling beneath her feet, she could not find purchase.

George reached out to steady her.

Lorena recoiled at his touch, swatting away his hand. “I suppose you have told Mrs. Ellery I am your betrothed?”

He nodded.

“That is a lie, and well you know it!”

George’s impatience revealed itself in an unforgiving scowl. “Then what should I have told her? That I am your
friend
, I suppose?”

“You are no friend of mine, George Louder.”

“You try my patience with these criticisms. I suggest you learn to treat me with more respect.”

His coldness chilled her. Lorena had found aspects of George’s behavior both suspect and disturbing for weeks now, though she’d chosen to ignore those misgivings so that she might preserve their long friendship. Now, too late, she realized how naive she’d been. The warning in her spirit had not been for Drew’s sake or for the sake of her family.

The warning had been for her.

B
y the following morning, Brogan was looking forward to his return to Duxboro and the moment he’d present Drew with the driving hoop he had bought the lad. Hoops were the most popular child’s amusement of the day. Yesterday, Brogan had watched young boys parade up and down the Common, driving their hoops in companies of fifteen or more, sometimes single file, sometimes two by two. Other times, they marched all lined up together in a row.

They looked to be having grand fun, and he’d immediately thought of his son.

For himself, he’d purchased a few supplies—some fishing lines and hooks, a knife, and a couple of shirts. And one thing more, quite unlike his other purchases for its sentimentality—an elaborate silver thimble, gaily wrapped in paper and presently tucked inside his waistcoat pocket.

After securing his other packages to his saddle, Brogan set off on horseback, traveling south with Nathaniel Huntley down the Bay Path, the principal inland road and stage route that ran from Boston to Plymouth. Later in the afternoon, they rested in the coastal farming community of Hingham, for it was Huntley’s desire that they should patronize the Old Ordinary.

“I think you’ll enjoy the fare,” said the shipbuilder. “This local gathering place and stagecoach stop has been serving warm drink and wholesome meals since well into the previous century.”

Outside, it featured weathered clapboards and a beautiful colonial garden. Inside, Brogan found wide-plank flooring and a central chimney. Public notices, printed circulars, and hand-scrawled advertisements papered the front wall. They sat in the dining room beneath the yellow glow of the oil lamps hanging overhead from hand-hewn beams. As Huntley spoke grace over the meal, Brogan couldn’t resist contemplating the crockery bowl set before him. It appeared to contain some sort of hash, browned and crispy around the edges and releasing a tantalizing vapor of sage and onion.

The prayer concluded, he reached for his silverware and forked into its moist center, sampling the fare. Chicken hash. It was hot and satisfying to his taste, with a pleasing sour edge of cranberry.

“Lorena would enjoy this dish,” Huntley said with a thoughtful smile. “My daughter loves a good home-style Yankee casserole. She shares that in common with her mother. There are many ways, in fact, that she reminds me of dear Clara.”

Beside them, a group of travelers bowed their heads in a lively discussion of politics, but to Brogan the voices were nothing more than a collective hum amid the pipe smoke and cigar rings as he sat listening to Huntley reminisce about his late wife.

A shame it was too, to hear of the grief this good fellow bore for a spouse several years deceased. He reminisced of her delicate beauty, her gentle spirit, her unending compassion for others.

“Qualities she passed on to her daughter,” praised Huntley.

Brogan nodded. Aye, Lorena Huntley lived her devotion and commitment to family with the same passion that Brogan yearned to be a part of one.

He felt for the shipbuilder, who was still fairly young to have lost such a wife—the kind of devoted and faithful life companion Brogan could only imagine. Huntley’s was nothing like the relationship Brogan had known with Abigail. Extreme sadness and guilt rose within him that he did not mourn his own wife so.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, sir. Not only of your wife, but I believe you also lost a brother a few years back.” Brogan tread carefully and in a tone inviting further discussion.

Huntley winced before gazing thoughtfully in the direction of the hearth. To Brogan, the man’s eyes appeared misty, but whether as a result of the smoke-filled room or his memories, it was impossible to tell.

“Died of pneumonia,” the shipbuilder confirmed.

“I read of the tragedy in the Boston papers.”

Huntley gave a grim nod. “God have mercy on his soul. Stephen was richly blessed. If only he’d taken more responsibility with those blessings.”

Brogan stared into his cup of mulled cider, confused as to the shipbuilder’s meaning. “His death was rumored to have been linked with a mysterious house fire in which a Boston woman perished. Were you acquainted with her?”

How well did you know my wife?
The question burned on the tip of his tongue.
How did you manage to take possession of my son?
With bated breath, Brogan anticipated Huntley’s answer.

“I hear she was a social woman, acquainted with a great many people.”

The man’s evasiveness gnawed at Brogan. He’d been at sea, captaining the privateer
Black Eagle
, when Abigail perished. Upon his return he learned only what the newspapers had revealed and what little else he’d been able to garner through his own inquiries.

Abigail had succumbed in a fire that began quite late in the evening, burning their home—the brick waterfront she’d inherited from the estate of her first husband, wealthy Boston lawyer and merchant, Hezekiah Russell—beyond repair. The papers portrayed her as beautiful and haughty, referring to her as the “widow Russell,” as she had been more widely recognized throughout Boston society due to her first husband’s prominence . . . and as opposed to her second husband’s commonness. She was hailed as a woman of means who had made a surprising marriage to a younger man, a lowly seaman to whom she had borne a son.

It was an insult to Brogan that his name was not mentioned, nor Benjamin’s. No infant’s body was found at the scene, and yet the child was reported to have died in the blaze. No one cared enough to investigate further, and no mention was made of the babe again. Reportedly, no mourners attended his mother’s funeral. Abigail had no other family.

Brogan visited her resting place often once he returned, as though she could speak through the grave and tell him the whereabouts of their son.

He continued to search, knocking on neighborhood doors, though he was not always well received. When necessary, he waited on street corners in order to question certain folk as they were leaving or returning from their homes. He interviewed the seafront community, from merchants, sea captains, and sailors to the seedier characters of Boston Harbor and its taverns. He visited orphanages and churches throughout the area into outlying towns. He chased any lead, any possibility of a clue, yet found nothing that might lead him to Ben’s whereabouts.

Then he uncovered the hint of a rumor which had circulated at the time.

A witness was reported to have seen Boston merchant Stephen Huntley, Nathaniel’s younger brother, fleeing the scene of the fire. The story was discounted and the witness viewed as unreliable, not only because of him being a ship’s master, well known for having business disagreements with Stephen Huntley, but because, at about this same time, Stephen—a graduate of Harvard College, a respected member of Boston society, a devoted husband and father—had been struck grievously ill and was bedridden. He died shortly thereafter.

His passing was received as a great tragedy, and all of Boston lamented his loss. Family, friends, and business associates rallied to protect his good name from slander, and the rumor was promptly hushed.

Only through his tireless research did Brogan stumble upon news of it. But with nowhere left to turn, he’d made haste to Duxboro to call on Stephen’s shipbuilder brother. As it happened, Brogan was in the market for a merchantman, and Nathaniel Huntley came highly recommended. Though three years had passed since he’d set eyes on his son, one glimpse past the open draperies of Nathaniel Huntley’s study window to the ruggedly built, towheaded child playing in the garden, and Brogan knew he had at last found his precious child.

Relief washed through him, victory sweeter than any prize he’d taken during the war, for Brogan could see his son was in health and had been cared for.

He wavered between a smile that split his face to a shout of joy and a tearful outpouring. Yet Brogan revealed nothing of the whirlwind of emotion inside him and instead channeled his excitement into laying out what he required in the design of his merchantman, then placed an order for the
Yankee Heart
. Once the documents had been signed, it took every bit of strength and resolve to leave Huntley’s estate. Brogan had no choice but to bide his time until the
Yankee Heart
was built, counting the months until he could execute his plan and reclaim his son.

Which caused Brogan to often wonder . . . if the rumor had been so unfounded, as everyone believed, then how had it managed to be the only bit of information to successfully lead him to Duxboro and his son?

Obviously there was a connection between the Huntley brothers and Abigail. But what was the connection? One a Boston merchant, the other a Duxboro shipbuilder—how was it they’d both been acquainted with her? And what had been the nature of that involvement? It would seem even more likely that it was not Stephen at all who’d been spotted the night of the fire, but Nathaniel. Did the two brothers bear a strong resemblance?

In the weeks Brogan had spent in Nathaniel Huntley’s company, in careful observation of the shipbuilder . . . and in knowing Abigail as well as he had . . . Brogan could not imagine these two conflicting personality types having had any sort of close association.

And yet they most definitely had.

As far as Brogan could tell, the only thing they had in common was the child Benjamin.

Why his son?

Only the fellow seated across from him knew the answer.

Brogan leaned forward, eager to turn the conversation to his advantage and gain the information he sought, but he must proceed with caution, for beneath Huntley’s humble and affable exterior lay a shrewd, accomplished fellow, careful in all respects and keen to keep his wits about him.

Brogan grew weary of hiding his identity. Should he confess all to Huntley right now and be done with it? Unburden his secret and trust in the shipbuilder’s goodwill to help him resolve the fate of his relationship with his son? Here they sat, man to man; it was the perfect opportunity. And yet how could he, not knowing what reaction his news would bring? Brogan couldn’t risk alienating Huntley before he’d had a chance to restore his relationship with Drew.

Nathaniel Huntley, what dark secret do you hide?
The man had intentionally avoided his inquiries about Abigail. What influence could she have exercised over him that would have caused Huntley to act so extensively on Benjamin’s behalf? Kindness?

Brogan had a difficult time believing such goodwill existed.

He might never learn the truth of what happened three years ago, never know why Abigail had rid herself of their son on the day before the
Black Eagle
was scheduled to sail into war. But unwittingly she had saved Benjamin’s life. If she had not given the boy to Huntley, Ben would have been in their townhouse when the fire broke out. He would have perished alongside her.

Abigail had been gone nearly three years, and in the passing of that time, Brogan’s bitterness and resentment had turned to pity.

He realized he was only half listening to Nathaniel Huntley, who had moved on to the topic of his merchant venture and was debating what goods he should invest in to trade.

“Cod,” Brogan heard himself blurt.

“Cod?” repeated Huntley, inviting an explanation.

“Indeed, sir.” Nodding, Brogan laid down his fork. “There’s a wealth of Atlantic cod to be caught in the shallow waters of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. My recommendation is that you start your enterprise by constructing a fishing fleet. Schooners you could easily outfit through your farms. Crew them with fishermen and launch them on expeditions off the east coast of Canada. The catches could be sold to Boston merchants or ferried back home to Duxboro, where you could have the cod salted first.”

“There is indeed a fine profit to be made in the fishing industry,” Huntley agreed, thoughtful. Brogan could fairly see the man’s wheels turning. “Especially with markets in Nova Scotia and the French Indies.”

“Aye. But in trading as near as Boston you could oversee the operation of your fleet yet remain close to your family.” But in offering this suggestion, Brogan wondered, was he referring to Huntley or himself?

Huntley continued to discuss the prospect as they resumed their journey along the Bay Path. They rode a sun-dappled turnpike, bordered on either side by a dense stand of trees, but as the afternoon wore on and daylight began to fade, shadows obscured ruts in the gravel road. They progressed carefully on the last leg of their journey, both travelers and horses growing weary as they reached Duxborotown, when suddenly Brogan spied a man on horseback galloping toward them. The fellow called out and waved for their attention.

Huntley turned to Brogan with alarm. “I believe that is Edward Hicks, my dockyard foreman.”

The approaching figure was a young fellow of medium build, dark hair, and the hale appearance of one employed at working with his hands. Brogan nodded in greeting as Hicks reined his horse alongside theirs, but he could read in the foreman’s expression he had not come to bring good tidings.

“Mr. Huntley,” Hicks greeted, somewhat breathless, “I and several others have been searching for you, even riding as far as Boston. We had expected your return earlier.”

Huntley’s brow creased in concern. “We dallied a bit at the shops this morning. What is it, Edward? Has something happened?”

“I am sorry to say I have unfortunate news, sir. Your daughter is gone. Gone on the ship that carries George Louder to England. She departed with him yesterday.”

“Departed with George? But . . . how is that possible?” Huntley sat frozen with woe, his face white. “Edward, are you certain? With no word to anyone?”

“A note was left with young Miss Temperance Culliford.”

Huntley squeezed his eyes shut in painful reflection. “About a month ago, George requested my permission to propose marriage to Lorena. I assumed she had refused the shipwright, for she never mentioned any such offer to me, not even when I hinted at the subject one evening after supper.”

Brogan saw the shipbuilder’s anguish, and his jaw clenched with the effort to contain his own stinging pride. Had he mistaken Lorena’s affection? Had he imagined fondness in those soft chocolate eyes? He was shocked to realize the severity of his disappointment. His gut burned.