Authors: Sandra Chastain
“Jacob, I’m too heavy for you to carry. I insist that you let me down.”
“For twelve weeks you have insisted this, ordered that, and demanded something else. From now on I shall make the decisions. And I will carry you ashore. One woman, carrying one tiny unborn babe, is child’s play after what you’ve put me through.”
Carrie bit back her protest and settled against his massive chest. His arms beneath her back and thighs were firm and strong. It wasn’t being carried that was creating such a problem for her, it was the queer shortness of breath and the thundering of her heart that would give her away if she wasn’t careful.
For the first two weeks on board the
Butterfly
, she’d alternately cursed and pouted. When she’d enlisted the captain’s support she’d expected him to fall at her feet like half the young men in Boston. He hadn’t. Over the next two weeks she’d begun to see beyond the captain’s stern manner: how he cared for
her and for his ship, how he took every precaution that she not be seen. It wasn’t until her terrible seasickness, which came with the storm during the fourth week, that his attempt to keep his distance was finally shattered.
Being sick to her stomach was nothing new. She’d felt that way from the first; that was how she’d known she was in the family way. That’s why she’d had to run away—to hide her condition from her family so that they wouldn’t force her to wed the man they’d chosen for her, the man responsible for her condition, the man who so revolted her that she could give up all she held dear.
Jacob hadn’t welcomed her on board his ship. After all, though she was sure he despised the man, he was her father’s partner. And all the times he’d come to the house he’d ignored every attempt she’d made to gain his attention. Jacob was a stern, aloof man, much too old for her, but once he’d found her hiding on board his ship, he hadn’t been able to refuse her plea for help.
She was already compromised, and he’d be held responsible, no matter the reason. He didn’t know about the babe, not at first, for she was concerned about what he might do if he learned the truth. But then came the seasickness, and the retching that came with it.
Carrie had hid the seriousness of her condition for two days. Then, as the third day slid into night and the storm calmed, Jacob had finally forced his way into her quarters and discovered her sad state. He’d undressed her, removed her soiled gown, and pressed little sips of bitter tonic down her to soothe the turmoil. He’d cared for her—wiping the perspiration
from her brow, bathing her body in cool water that refreshed. She’d been so sick that she hadn’t cared. Then one night she’d finally realized what he was doing.
The roughness of his touch on her skin had given way to a gentleness—and a quiver of excitement—that she’d never expected. Her eyes had opened suddenly, catching a fleeting, yearning expression as his hand rested for a moment on her extended stomach.
“Are you with child, lass?”
She twisted away, ashamed to have him see the answer in her eyes, yet compelled to tell him the truth.
“Yes.”
“And what had you planned to do?”
“I don’t know. Find a position in Savannah, perhaps, as a governess or companion. I can sew and care for sick people, and teach children. I am educated,”
she said proudly.
He’d cast that solemn look at her, a look that said more with its sadness than words could have expressed.
“You know there’s a war coming. The South thinks to separate itself from the North. How did you, a mere girl from Boston, expect to find a position in the South?”
“I hadn’t thought. But there must be a parson, or someone, who’d assist me in my search.”
“And I suppose you’ll tell them you have no husband because he’s dead, and you’re traveling alone because you have no family member to accompany you?”
She hadn’t intended to cry, but by that time she was so worn out and sick that she hadn’t been able to hold back the tears. With helpless acceptance he’d
taken her into his arms and promised that he’d look after her.
“Oh, Jacob, I feel so horrid. While I was so sick I prayed that I’d lose the child. I was more concerned with myself and the shame. I told myself that I didn’t want it. But I was wrong. I do so want my baby. Promise me you’ll look after it.”
“I will, lass. I’ll protect you and the babe. I promise.”
And he did. She grew used to the sea, came to revel in the smell of the salt air as the ship slid across the waves. From Savannah he’d sailed south to the islands in the Caribbean, swapping machinery and sugar boxes for spices, fruit, and molasses. Carrie got past her sickness and reveled in the feel of the sea breeze in her hair and the sun on her skin. Jacob even began to laugh now and then. Finally, on the return trip, he made arrangements for her to stay with a woman near the coast while he returned to Boston one last time.
She’d heard rumors of discord for months, though she’d never expected that they’d really have a war. But with the firing of the cannons at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor, the war began, and now they were on their way to Lord knew where. Carrie was certain that Jacob would finally be forced to acknowledge the growing attraction that was stealing her breath and turning her insides into vanilla pudding every time he came close to her. But Jacob was a man with an iron will, and she couldn’t be certain that her feelings were reciprocated.
“Jacob, are we almost there?”
“Yes, we’re here, Carrie.”
He left the schooner, carried her through the
water, and was standing on a crudely built porch of a small house beside the lake. He stopped, wanting for the hundredth time to strangle the young woman who’d changed his life, who’d been foolish and brave and had worked her way first into his mind and eventually into his heart.
He’d purposefully sought out this wilderness setting, this marshland with a river to sail and a place to hide his ship. Before leaving Boston he’d been torn between helping the land of his birth and continuing the partnership he had with Carrie’s father. He hadn’t known which to choose, until he’d learned that the
Butterfly
was destined to carry explosives. Then Carrie had stolen on board his ship and forced him to leave the life he’d always known. He hadn’t counted on falling in love with her.
“Captain?”
Rogan felt that prickly sensation again. For a moment he felt as if he were sleepwalking. Then he heard his name called again, pulling him back to the present.
“Rogan! Are you all right?”
Rogan shook off the strange feeling that had swept over him the moment he’d pulled Carolina from the mud and stepped from the water with her in his arms. He moved across the porch and inside the old house. “This is it, Goldilocks, the original Rogan house, built by Captain Rogan—your Jacob, perhaps.”
“Oh, yes,” Carolina said softly, looking around the room. “Jacob and Carrie. Can’t you feel it? They were here, perhaps in this very spot. I wish she’d talked
about it in her journal, but she didn’t—only about the
Butterfly
. Oh, Rogan, it’s wonderful. Can we start restoring it?”
“You aren’t going to restore anything. I can’t believe you were foolish enough to jump into the water. Suppose there’d been a tree submerged. You could have been hurt.”
“Nonsense. I’ve watched you do the same thing every afternoon when you take your swim. Besides—oh look, Rogan, do you see it?” She caught a glimpse of vivid red, a flutter of wings, hovering in the open window. Then it was gone.
Rogan followed the line of her vision, seeing only a moving leaf from a wild azalea through a crack in the wall.
“What? I don’t see anything.”
“It was a butterfly—a scarlet butterfly.”
“No lass.”
The voice came to her clearly in the silence.
“The scarlet butterfly has been extinct for a hundred years. It only lived on one small island in the Southern Ocean. Now it’s gone.”
Carolina looked up at Rogan to see if he’d heard.
Oblivious to the voice, Rogan carried her toward the window and leaned out. “I don’t know anything about butterflies, but I don’t recall ever seeing a red one.”
“Well, I just saw one. Put me down, Captain—eh, Rogan. I want to look around.”
“Without shoes, it isn’t safe. You could step on a nail, or a snake.”
“Nonsense.” Carolina kicked her feet and looked up at her knight with a full pout on her lips. “I’ll be very careful. I just want to look out the window.”
Rogan glanced around. The floor was surprisingly
clean. In fact, he didn’t recall it having been so free from debris the last time. He planted Carolina’s feet on the floor. She was still dripping wet, his shirt sticking to her slim body like plastic wrap.
“Be careful!” he said sharply in an attempt to push away the odd feeling of unreality that seemed to attack him whenever they were together.
“Oh, Rogan, could it be restored?”
“ ‘Restored’? I doubt it. Rebuilt? Yes. In fact, that’s what I’d originally planned to do, until I found the
Butterfly
.”
Carolina walked slowly around the rooms and back to the window, as if she were absorbing the aura of the house. She peered out, holding her position for a long time.
“There was a red butterfly here. I know I saw it. The next time we go into town, Rogan, I want a book on butterflies.”
More commitment, Rogan thought. Just what he hadn’t intended to allow. He couldn’t seem to refuse her, even when he knew that what he was doing was wrong.
As she looked out into the trees, Carolina felt a flash of weakness wash over her, a hazy, dizzying uncertainty. She was suddenly tired, so very tired, and she felt disoriented. The trees began to blur, almost disappearing. She held on, refusing to faint. And then she saw it, standing in a clearing—a runty tree, gnarled and bent. And on its limbs were small golden globes of fruit.
“Rogan, I see it.”
“The butterfly?” He moved to her side.
“No,” she said in a voice filled with awe, “the peach tree. It’s here, back there in the woods. I see it.”
And then she lost the vision as a gray haze closed out the room and everything in it.
Rogan caught her as she slid to the floor. “Dammit, Carolina! Why do you keep pushing yourself? You’re not strong enough to go jumping into the water.”
He gathered her into his arms and started back to the ship, feeling her satisfied sigh as she laid her head against his chest.
“I’m fine, Rogan, really I am. It’s just that I need—”
“You need rest. You need to stay in bed. I need to send you back to your father. At least he knows how to take care of you.”
“No, Rogan, I just need my medication,” she whispered under her breath.
He put her back to bed, peeling the wet swimsuit from her body and covering her with a sheet. He was always putting her back to bed, watching her sleep, feeling himself harden at the sight of her. Since she’d arrived he had accomplished little except repairing the hole in the deck. The sails, ordered weeks earlier, were ready—no, waiting—to be picked up.
He needed to start preparing a defense for his claim to the
Butterfly
before the meeting next week. He needed to rebuild the house. He needed to find the figurehead, if in fact there was one. He needed to stop concentrating on the golden-haired woman who’d come into his life with silver-blue eyes and a “hello world” attitude.
He needed to stop smelling imaginary tobacco smoke and hearing creaks and groans that weren’t there. He needed to work off some of his frustrations.
Ten minutes later he was walking up the path to the old house. The swim hadn’t helped. He went
inside and walked over to the window where Carolina had thought she’d seen the butterfly.
“Damn!” He swore and swung at the wall beside the crumbling fireplace. A brick moved and fell to the floor with a thud. The pressure of his blow must have somehow dislodged the brick, even though he hadn’t actually touched it. Spooky. Everything about the woman, the storm, the night had unnerved him.
Then, as if he were being directed to do so, he leaned over and studied the hole left by the brick. There was something inside, an oilcloth pouch, tattered now by the passage of time. Inside the pouch was a small book. Carefully, he removed the book and opened it to the cover page.
The private journal of Carolina Walden—May 12, 1860.
Rogan felt a ripple of cold zigzag down his backbone.
More intrusions from the past. First the boat, then the woman. Now an earlier journal.
Rogan was almost afraid to turn the page and find there were no entries. No, he thought. This was Carolina’s ancestor too. Besides, he didn’t want to leave her alone too long. He’d take the book back to the boat. He gently replaced the book in its pouch and started back to the ship. He was almost at the end of the dock when he heard the voice.
“No. She can’t stay. She doesn’t belong. You can’t protect her.”
Sean glanced furtively around. He didn’t know whether he’d actually heard someone speak, or whether he’d imagined it. As he stood holding the book he felt a strange tingling in his hands, and smelled the ever-present scent of tobacco.
Back on the ship he held the diary for a time, allowing himself to acknowledge the strange feeling of connection that came with its touch. It had to be Carolina and her strong conviction that they were somehow destined to come together that was feeding his own irrational fantasy. By the glow of the galley light, Rogan carefully removed the book from the pouch and turned to the first page.
Carolina Walden of Boston, Massachusetts. August 12, 1860. We are three days out of Boston and Jacob has not yet spoken to me. I am afraid, but I am determined. I won’t go back. And I know that he cares for me, even if he chooses not to show it
.
Apparently Carolina kept a full record of her life, at least the life that included Jacob. Sean hadn’t been certain that he believed his Carolina’s claim to having seen a journal, and he was still unclear about how it came into the Evans’s family’s possession. He was tempted to wake her and share the diary, but she needed her rest.