Surrender the Dawn (10 page)

With a sigh of resignation, Miss Channing leaned once again over the document. Her hand trembled, sending the pen’s feathers quivering. She didn’t trust him. But how could he blame her when he didn’t trust himself?

Snatching the signed documents, Mr. McCulloch stuffed them inside his satchel and bid them good evening as he charged out of the parlor, yelling over his shoulder that he would see himself out.

Miss Channing held the banknote out to Luke. He tugged on it. She wouldn’t let go. Her gaze skittered from him to Noah, then Marianne. Her chest rose and fell beneath the lace trim of her saffron gown. Finally she relinquished it into his hand, following it with her eyes all the way into Luke’s waistcoat pocket.

But what was one thousand dollars to the great Channing merchant business? Surely she had plenty more where that came from.

Grabbing her reticule and fan, Cassandra embraced Marianne, thanked Noah, and headed toward the foyer as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. She halted at the parlor door and turned to address him. “I should like to come see the ship when she’s ready to sail.”

Luke gave her a mock bow. “I am at your service.”

Miss Channing’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll walk you out.” Marianne broke the tension, moving to her friend’s side and weaving her arm through Cassandra’s.

After the ladies departed, Noah gave Luke that same look of reprimand he’d often given him as captain aboard the
Defender.

Ignoring him, as he always had, Luke sauntered toward the service table and lifted the bottle of Madeira. “May I?”

“No sooner do you promise Miss Channing you’ll avoid alcohol, than you run straight for a drink.”

“I am not at sea.” He lifted his goblet. The sweet wine soured as it slid down his throat.

“Perhaps one day you’ll learn to handle life’s afflictions without numbing your senses.”

Luke raised his brows. “Why would I want to do that?”

“It doesn’t take away the pain.”

“No, but it dulls it enough to bear.”

Noah crossed his arms over his chest. “Do right by her, Luke.”

Luke met his stern gaze. He had every intention of honoring their agreement. But what he wouldn’t tell his friend was that no matter how hard he tried, Luke could not guarantee that he wouldn’t fail her as he had everyone else in his life.

“I probably shouldn’t inform you of this, but”—Noah nodded toward the note in Luke’s pocket—“that’s all the money Miss Channing has left in the world.”

Luke shrank back. “What of her brothers? The Channing merchantmen?”

“Gone—both her brothers and the ships.” Noah sat back down on the settee and stretched his legs out before him. “The brothers to Canada to fight and the ships sold to provide for the family in their absence. You didn’t hear?”

Luke shook his head. “No doubt they’ll return soon.”

“Perhaps.” Noah scratched his jaw. “Perhaps not. Who knows with this mad war?”

Luke poured himself another glass. His gut churned. Taking money from a rich merchant was one thing, but taking all the lady had was quite another. Didn’t she know he was not dependable? Of course she did. It was why she had hesitated, why she had demanded he refrain from drink. Luke slammed the Madeira toward the back of his throat. He hated responsibility, avoided it as much as possible. Then why did it always seem to find him?

“You are now the only one keeping Miss Channing and her family from poverty.” Noah’s sobering declaration rang through the room like a ship’s beat to quarters before a battle.

“You should have warned her.”

“Perhaps. But I have a feeling God has caused this arrangement with Miss Channing. That in some way, the association will lead you both to your destiny.”

With a huff of frustration, Luke faced his friend. “Don’t include me in your mad prophecies. There is no divine destiny for men like me.”

Noah stretched his arm over the back of the settee and smiled. “We shall see.”

Luke tore his gaze from the knowing look in his friend’s eyes. Despite all of Luke’s past mistakes, his shortcomings and blunders, this time he could not fail.

Gripping the shears, Cassandra strolled through the solarium studying each gardenia plant as she went. It had been two weeks since she’d signed over the last of her family’s fortune to the town rogue. She nearly laughed at how silly that statement sounded. She
would
laugh at the absurdity of it all if her stomach weren’t tied in knots and her blood ringing in her ears. A condition that had started that morning when a messenger from Mr. Heaton had summoned her to inspect the new privateer,
Destiny,
that afternoon.

Surely it was a simple case of nerves brought on by the critical nature of her investment and not the fact that she would see Luke Heaton within an hour. For the sooner the ship set sail, the sooner her chances of catching a prize and the sooner the money would start flowing in. Then Cassandra could pay off her creditors. She didn’t know how much longer Mr. Newman would extend her account at the mercantile or Mr. Sikes at the chandlers or Mr. Roberts at the cobblers or if Mr. Kile at the Bank of Baltimore would call in the loan she took out against their property. If any of them demanded payment before her investment with Mr. Heaton paid off, her family would be on the streets.

Stopping, she clipped a dead branch from one of the plants then stooped to cut off a faded flower. She wished she could rid herself of her problems as easily. Drawing a deep whiff of a fresh blossom, she brushed her cheek over its soft petals. The sweet fragrance filled her lungs, luring her eyes closed as she dreamed of happier days when her father was alive and both her brothers were home. Gregory, two years her senior, had inherited their father’s flaming red hair and the temper to go with it. But he always came to Cassandra’s defense on any issue and never allowed gentlemen callers unless he’d first scrutinized them at length. And Matthew, sweet docile Matthew, who, though only a year older than Cassandra, possessed the wisdom of an ancient scholar and the kindness of a saint. How many evenings had they curled up together in her chamber as children with a candle and a copy of their favorite book,
Keeper’s Travels in Search of His Master,
reading late into the night of grand adventures in foreign lands?

The loud clank of the solarium door followed by childish squealing jarred Cassandra from her memories. She opened her eyes to a flash of blond hair and a flutter of petticoats as Darlene darted past her then wove in between a row of plants and disappeared. Hannah barreled in after her, her wide blue eyes scanning the room.

“Darlene, Hannah!” Margaret’s voice flew in from outside.

Setting down the shears, Cassandra fisted her hands at her waist. “Now, you girls know you’re not allowed in here.”

Giggles burst from the far corner. Ignoring Cassandra, Hannah dashed toward them. Dexter loped into the solarium fast on the girl’s heels as she threaded in between two of Cassandra’s newly planted sprouts. The clumsy sheepdog bumped into a wooden table. The pot sitting atop it teetered. Cassandra stretched out her hands toward it as a scream stuck in her throat.

Dexter’s bark joined screeching laughter from the far end of the solarium as the pot crashed to the floor, sending chips of clay, clods of dirt, and the small plant shooting over the stone tiles.

Cassandra halted. She heard Margaret’s gasp behind her. Silence swept the children’s laughter away, replaced by the patter of feet and paws as the two girls and Dexter slowly emerged from behind a row of plants, a look of dread on their faces.

“Oh miss, I’m so sorry.” Margaret knelt by the broken pot and began to pick up the pieces. “We’re sorry, Cassie,” Darlene said, her chin lowering.

Hannah stuck her thumb into her mouth and nodded as her eyes filled with tears.

Cassandra laid a hand on Margaret’s arm. “Never mind that now. I’ll take care of it.” She turned to chastise the girls, but Darlene grabbed Hannah and darted out the door, leaving only Dexter to take the brunt of her anger. He gave a rueful whine.

Margaret’s pudgy cheeks reddened. “I was trying to collect them for their studies, miss, but they got away from me.”

“It’s quite all right, Margaret.” Cassandra sighed. “I don’t believe General Smith himself could corral those girls.”

As Margaret’s laughter filled the room, Cassandra glanced out the mist-covered windows. “Where is Mrs. Northrop?”

“In the house.” Margaret clutched Dexter’s collar and led him out the door. “Which reminds me, Mr. Crane arrived just a moment ago and
your mother is asking for you.” Sympathy deepened her tone.

A sour taste filled Cassandra’s mouth, and she doubted it was due to the overcooked oatmeal she’d had for breakfast. “Well, I simply can’t stay and socialize. I’m meeting Mr. Heaton at his ship in an hour.”

“Indeed? Are you sure it’s safe to be alone with him?” Margaret teased.

“Of course. He’s my new captain. I must trust him.” She had to trust him.

She didn’t trust him.

“Besides, we won’t be alone. His crew is there.” Cassandra stepped out and closed the door.

“I shall pray for your safety, miss, and for God’s wisdom,” Margaret said.

“Thank you, Margaret. I suppose your prayers couldn’t hurt.” Though she doubted they’d do much good either.

Back in the house, an odd smell coming from the kitchen curled Cassandra’s nose. Waving it away, she drifted past the library on her way up to her chamber. Whispered voices drew her gaze into the room where she spotted Mr. Crane and Mrs. Northrop, their heads bent together in some sort of parley. What on earth would Mr. Crane have to say to the housekeeper? Cassandra halted by the edge of the doorway to listen, but she couldn’t make out their words. What did it matter, anyway? She should thank the housekeeper for keeping the man occupied and away from Cassandra. And perhaps giving her a chance to sneak out without speaking to him.

Hurrying up the stairs to her chamber, she checked her reflection in her dressing glass, donned her gloves, grabbed her fur-lined pelisse and parasol, and tried to make a quick exit out the front door before her mother noticed.

“You would simply not believe what this war has done for newspaper sales.” Mr. Crane’s tone blared like a dissonant trumpet from inside the parlor. “Our sales have increased a hundredfold. Everyone is scrambling for recent news from the battlefronts.”

Halfway across the open doors, Cassandra tiptoed onward, not daring to peek inside the room lest she draw attention her way.

A teacup rattled on a saucer. “Oh Cassandra, dear. Where are you going? Mr. Crane has come to call on you.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, silently chastising herself for not leaving by the back door. Pasting on a smile, she spun around. “I have an errand to
run, Mother.” She nodded toward Mr. Crane, who had risen from his seat with a rather baffled look on his face. “Mr. Crane, how nice to see you.”

“Alone?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Cassandra replied, stepping just inside the room. “Mr. Dayle is otherwise occupied and it is broad daylight. I will be quite safe, I assure you. Now, if you don’t mind.” Cassandra turned to leave.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” Her mother’s harsh tone turned her back around. “You are being quite rude. Come and sit for a while.”

“I fear I cannot, Mother. I have an appointment.”

“With whom?”

Cassandra bit her lip. She had not told her mother of her investment yet. Had not wanted to vex her overmuch. But perhaps this would be the best time. With company present, her mother would surely not dive into her usual hysterics, and perhaps Mr. Crane could help allay her fears.

“With Captain Heaton,” Cassandra blurted out. “I’ve invested in his privateer and they are to set sail on the morrow.”

Mr. Crane flinched.

Her mother’s jaw fell open and appeared to be stuck in that position. Leaning back on her chair, she threw a hand to her forehead. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Cassandra took a deep breath. “I did. And it will pay off, you’ll see. I guarantee we shan’t have any further troubles.” Yet she heard the uncertainty in her own voice.

“Mr. Luke Heaton?” Mr. Crane seemed to have found his voice, although it came out slow and garbled. “The scoundrel Heaton? The man who drinks and gambles his money away?”

Cassandra lifted her chin. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Her mother picked up the small bell from the table beside her and rang it profusely. “I need some tonic.”

Straightening his gray waistcoat, Mr. Crane approached Cassandra wearing the look of a schoolmaster instructing a foolish child. “This is quite preposterous, Miss Channing. Why would you go to such lengths when the solution to your problems stands before you?”

Cassandra forced a smile. “You are too kind, sir, but as I said before, I cannot in good conscience accept your offer.”

“Stubborn girl.” Her mother rang the bell again. Its shrill
ding ding ding
hammered on Cassandra’s guilt. “Do you see why my nerves are strung tight, Mr. Crane? Perhaps you can talk some sense into her?”

Mrs. Northrop appeared in the doorway. Her eyes locked with Mr. Crane’s before she sped to her mistress, bottle of tonic in hand.