Surrender the Dawn (29 page)

“Oh, there you are, dear. Isn’t it nice that Mr. Crane has taken time away from his duties at the newspaper to call on you?”

Not particularly.
Cassandra forced a smile and took a seat beside her
mother just as Hannah darted into the room, her eyes red with tears. “Mama, Darlene hit me.”

After an embarrassing glance at Mr. Crane, Cassandra’s mother placed her fingers atop her temple. “Please, dearest, tell her we do not hit each other in this house.”

“I did,” Hannah whined.

Darlene tumbled into the room then stopped short when she saw Mr. Crane. “I didn’t hit her, Mother.”

“Yes, you did.” Hannah stomped her foot and folded her arms over her chest.

“No, I didn’t.”

Cassandra’s mother closed her eyes and rang her bell, while Mr. Crane examined the girls with disdain before releasing a huff of impatience.

Seeing an opportunity to relieve herself of Mr. Crane’s company, Cassandra rose. “I’ll take them upstairs, Mother.” She started toward the girls.

“No, dear, I insist you stay and entertain Mr. Crane. I’ve invited him to stay for supper. Besides, Mrs. Northrop can take care of them.” She rang her bell again and the housekeeper appeared, a scowl on her face.

Kneeling beside her sisters, Cassandra gave them both a stern look. “Now go with Mrs. Northrop and attend to your studies. And behave yourselves, both of you.”

“I’m sorry, Cassie.” Darlene feigned a pout.

“I simply cannot handle them anymore,” her mother remarked to Mr. Crane after the girls left.

Cassandra spun around. “You never could handle them, Mother.”

Her mother frowned. “I suppose you’re right. You were equally as difficult, but at least your father was still here to help.”

Cassandra’s anger dissipated beneath the look of pain on her mother’s face. Taking her seat again, she placed a hand on her mother’s arm. “I’m truly sorry, Mother.”

Her mother gave a sad smile. “You always did have a mind of your own.”

Mr. Crane cleared his throat. “All those girls need is the firm hand of a man’s discipline.”

“Oh, you are so right, Mr. Crane. You are so right, indeed.” Her mother’s voice came back to life.

Cassandra leaned back in her chair, desperate to change the subject.
“How is the newspaper business, Mr. Crane?”

“Booming.” He tugged at the cuffs of his coat and sat on the sofa opposite Cassandra. A breeze stirred the curtains at the windows as the clatter of a horse and carriage ambled by on the street. “War is good for the news business, you know.”

Her mother chuckled. “Of course it is.”

Cassandra braced herself for another excruciating soliloquy of the happenings down at the
Baltimore Register.
But instead, Mr. Crane brought up a topic that had consumed Cassandra’s mind of late. “Have you heard from Mr. Heaton?”

A moment passed in which Cassandra gazed at him in astonishment, then another moment as she wondered at his reasons for asking. He had made his abhorrence of Mr. Heaton quite clear the last time they’d been together.

“Cassandra, you’re being rude. Answer Mr. Crane.” Her mother laughed nervously.

“No, I have not heard from him, sir. But it’s only been a few weeks. It could be months before he returns.”

Mr. Crane’s lips fell into a frown, and the edges of his nose seemed to droop with them. “So many of Baltimore’s privateers have never returned.” Leaning forward, he clipped the edge of the table with his forefinger and thumb while he spoke. He did not meet her gaze, though she thought she saw a hint of a smile peeking from the corners of his eyes. “The
Eleanor, Phaeton, Pioneer, Tartar,
all lost at sea. And the
Baltimore, Cashier, Courier, Dolphin, Arab, Lynx,
and
Falcon
all captured. Ah, the list goes on.”

Cassandra shifted uncomfortably on her seat.

“How true, Mr. Crane.” Her mother huffed. “But at least our share of Mr. Heaton’s first prize should last us a good long while.”

Our
share? Cassandra eyed her mother. When had it become
their
enterprise and not Cassandra’s foolish venture? “Regardless, Mother, there are human lives at stake. Not to mention the fate of our country.”

“I’m sure your mother meant no disrespect,” Mr. Crane said. “I, for one, can attest to that feeling of security that comes from financial independence.” With chin extended, he draped both arms across the back of the settee like a peacock spreading his feathers. “But I do come on another matter.”

Her mother nearly jumped from her seat as if she knew of what
matter he spoke. Cassandra gazed between them, unsure if she wished to hear it or not.

“Yes, Mr. Crane?” her mother said.

“No doubt you’ve heard about the upcoming ball at the Fountain Inn.”

Cassandra’s heart dropped. “I have, sir.”

“Please extend me the privilege of escorting you, Miss Channing.” His confident smile sent a shiver through her.

“Oh, how kind of you, sir!” Cassandra’s mother clapped her hands. “Isn’t it, dear?”

“Very kind.” Cassandra bit her lip and avoided the man’s gaze. Her eyes landed on a tea service on the table, and confusion wracked through her. Mr. Crane had said he ordered Mrs. Northrop to bring tea. With narrowed eyes, she opened her mouth to question him when an ominous crash sounded from the back of the house. Someone screamed, and the pounding of feet echoed down the hallway.

Cassandra’s mother moaned. Cassandra shot to her feet and tossed a “pardon me” over her shoulder at Mr. Crane before darting from the room and down the hall as she followed the sound of sobbing coming from the kitchen. She barreled through the swinging door to see Miss Thain on her knees before pieces of broken china and a splattering of red liquid. Dexter sat on his haunches, taller than Miss Thain on her knees, and grinned—if dogs could grin—bloody juice dripping from his furry chin. The smell of pea soup and dog breath assailed her. The door swung open, bumping Cassandra as her mother and Mr. Crane joined her.

Miss Thain wiped the tears from her face. “I’m so sorry, mum. Darlene and Hannah ran through and knocked the tray from my hands. And that beast followed them in and ate the entire roast for dinner.”

“Gads!” Mr. Crane said. “Of all the …”

Mrs. Northrop entered the room and gasped.

Growling, Dexter charged Mr. Crane and leapt upon him, forcing him back with two enormous paws upon the man’s pristine coat. Pristine no longer as blood from the roast, mixed with dog saliva, sprayed over the fabric with each bark.

Mr. Crane’s face crumpled in disgust. Cringing, he crossed his arms over his face as Dexter shoved him against the wall. “Get him off of me!”

“Oh dear, Mr. Crane. My apologies, sir.” Mrs. Channing hurried toward him. “Dexter, get down this instant!” Her harried gaze swept to
Cassandra. “Get that monstrosity of a dog off Mr. Crane and out of here at once!”

Restraining a giggle, Cassandra grabbed Dexter’s collar, tugged him from the cowering newspaper man, and led him to the door.

“How many times have I told those girls not to run in the kitchen or to allow that dog in the house!” her mother brayed to no one in particular.

“Be a good boy, now,” Cassandra whispered to the dog, closed the door, and turned to see her mother nearly swooning over Mr. Crane, who had somewhat recovered from his display of cowardice. Although to be fair, Cassandra had never seen Dexter behave so violently with anyone before.

“That was to be our supper, Mr. Crane,” Cassandra’s mother whined. “We had purchased the finest meat we could find in town. Quite expensive, you know. And now we have nothing to offer you.”

“Do not vex yourself, Mrs. Channing.” Mr. Crane led her to a chair at the preparation table. “I am happy to eat porridge and biscuits if that is all you have to offer me.”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Crane.” Her mother dropped her forehead into her hand. “We would never think of serving such menial fare to such an important guest.”

“How kind of you, madam.” Mr. Crane took a step back and examined his soiled coat. He brushed his sleeves in a panicky fashion, as if the pandemonium in the house were infectious.

Miss Thain continued to sob.

“Perhaps you should take Mother to the parlor, Mr. Crane”—Cassandra offered him a sweet smile—“while I straighten this mess out.”

“Yes, very well.” He tugged at his cravat.

“But what are we to serve for supper?” her mother asked.

Cassandra gazed out the window where bright sunlight lit the garden in a kaleidoscope of greens, browns, and yellows. “Never fear, Mother, it is still early. Margaret and I can go to the market.”

Clinging to the table for support, her mother stood and smiled. “Thank you, dear.” Then clutching Mr. Crane’s arm, she allowed him to lead her from the kitchen.

After they left, Cassandra reassured Miss Thain that she bore no blame for the incident and then instructed Mrs. Northrop to assist the cook in cleaning up the mess. Upstairs, Cassandra retrieved the key to her father’s chest from its hiding place in the top drawer of her dressing
bureau. If she was to purchase a good cut of fresh meat, she’d need some money.

With key in hand, she ventured out the back door into the garden and made her way around the corner of her house to the solarium. Inside, the warm, moist air saturated her with the smell of gardenias. She drew in a deep breath and shook her head at the madness that seemed to always plague her family. Sitting on her stool, she pulled out the wooden chest from beneath her workbench, inserted the key, and flung it open. Her heart seized.

And shattered into a million pieces.

The money was gone.

  CHAPTER 21  

S
tuffing a pistol into his baldric and his cutlass into its scabbard, Luke leapt onto the main deck. He plucked the spyglass from his belt and pointed it aft. Mountains of white sails filled his vision—floating atop the hull of a British frigate. The Union Jack flew proudly from her foremast as she bore down on them just a few miles off their stern. They were gaining fast.

Luke’s throat closed. “Lud. How did this happen?”

“She appeared out of nowhere as soon as the sun broke the horizon,” Biron replied, his tone filled with surprise and something else that Luke had rarely heard from his friend—dread.

Lowering the scope, Luke squinted against the rising sun and scanned the ship where his crew stood gaping at the oncoming enemy. “Get to work, you sluggards!” he barked. “Mr. Keene, make all sail. Up topgallants and stays. Drop every stitch of canvas to the wind.”

Standing on the foredeck, Mr. Keene snapped out of a daze and turned to shout orders to the topmen, sending them leaping into the shrouds. Gone was the permanent smirk from his lips, the mischievous glint in his eyes. Instead fear laced his features.

Luke turned his attention to Sam, who stood ever faithful at the wheel. The lad’s light hair blew in the breeze. His eyes focused forward as if willing the ship to go faster. “Four points to starboard, Sam. Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes, Cap’n,” Sam replied in a terse tone.

Luke gazed up at the men unfurling the extra canvas above. When all sails were raised to the wind,
Destiny
’s lighter frame should have no trouble outrunning the much heavier frigate. And on the off chance they couldn’t, Luke would bring the ship alongside the coast, where they could slip into a cove that was too shallow for the frigate to follow.

Destiny
flew through the water, cresting a rising swell and plummeting down the other side. Churning water leapt over the bow and rolled across the deck. The ship creaked and groaned beneath the strain. Bracing himself for the next wave, Luke raised his scope again. The frigate seemed to have picked up speed. With the wind’s advantage, she glided toward them under towering peaks of white canvas, a mustache of milky foam cresting her bow.

Alarm tightened Luke’s nerves.

Mr. Ward appeared on deck, followed by Mr. Sanders, the purser’s angular face made sharper by fear. The gunner, however, stopped before Luke, determination stiffening his features. “Orders, sir?”

“Prepare the guns, Mr. Ward,” Luke said. “And pray we don’t need to use them.”