Surrender the Dawn (33 page)

Destiny.

  CHAPTER 23  

V
ague shapes formed behind Luke’s eyelids, like shadowy specters of light and dark drifting over his eyes. A clank sounded from somewhere in the distance. The scent of coffee spiraled beneath his nose and thrummed on his rousing senses. No. He tried to push his mind back into the abyss of apathy, back into the soothing comfort of unconsciousness.

But another clank jarred him. Then the pain struck. Like a grappling hook clawing through his brain. He moaned and waved a hand around his head to see if someone was hammering on it. He touched his face. Nothing but damp flesh met his fingers. Cold and damp. And what was that stench that infiltrated the sweet smell of coffee?

Footfalls sounded, and he pried open one eye to see the blurry shape of Mrs. Barnes enter the sitting room with a tray. Setting it on the table, she sank into her favorite rocking chair with a heavy sigh. “I made you breakfast.” Her voice was thick and choppy, devoid of its usual cheerfulness.

Luke wanted to say thank you. Wanted to tell her to leave him alone. But he felt as though someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth. He opened his other eye to peer at the wooden ceiling and waited until the room stopped swirling.

“I see you drank yourself into unconsciousness.” Mrs. Barnes began to rock in her chair, the
creak creak
scraping holes in his wall of alcohol-induced narcosis.

Allowing memories to barge into his mind. The image of John being stolen by the British captain struck Luke first like a broadside in the gut, jarring him fully awake. Then the vision of Mrs. Barnes when he’d told her the news. The horror in her eyes, her ragged breathing, trembling lips, and the white sheen that had covered her face. Luke had grabbed her before she’d fallen and led her to a chair where she had sobbed for nearly an hour. Fighting wave after wave of guilt and battling his own tears, Luke had fumbled in the kitchen, attempting to make her some tea to soothe her nerves.

But no amount of tea or apologies or promises had been able to assuage the grief-stricken woman.

Closing his eyes, Luke struggled to sit. He felt as though a twenty-pound cannonball sat on his neck. He leaned on his knees, hoping the room would stop spinning. An empty bottle of brandy leaned on its side atop the hearth. The brandy he’d found in the kitchen. The brandy he’d intended to take only a few sips of to settle his raging soul.

Hair hanging in his face, he dared a glance at Mrs. Barnes. Her skin was even paler than last night. The lines etched across it deeper. Dark circles tugged on eyes that were red and puffy. A look of pity crossed them, and she poured him a cup of coffee that she passed his way.

Luke set it on the table, his stomach rebelling at the sight. “You serve me coffee after what I’ve done?” he moaned.

“You’re a son to me, Luke. I love you no less than I love John.”

The sound of his brother’s name pierced Luke’s heart. He hung his head. Not once after Luke had told her the news had Mrs. Barnes scolded him. Not once had she shouted or screamed or cursed him for what he’d done. No. She’d simply sat in her rocking chair, with her Bible in her lap, alternating between bouts of tears and gazing numbly into the burning logs of the fire.

Rebuke, shouting, even hatred, Luke could bear. But not her silence. Not her agony. So he had taken to drink to numb the pain.

“What happened, happened,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Maybe John was too young to go to sea. Maybe he wasn’t. You did what you thought best.”

“He was good out there, Mrs. Barnes,” Luke said, pride swelling within him, even now. “You should have seen him. He took to sailing as if he’d been born on a ship.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” The hint of a smile twitched one side of her mouth before it faded. “He’s got your blood running through him.”

Luke didn’t want to hear that. John was nothing like Luke. John was kind and pure and good. He would make something of his life.

If Luke hadn’t already sent him to his grave.

Mrs. Barnes drew her Bible to her chest and gripped it as if it held the answer to their dilemma. She stared once again at the coals in the fireplace, now black and cold. “I’ve been up all night praying, you see. And God has told me there is a reason this happened.”

Luke shot to his feet and instantly regretted it. His head spun and his stomach lurched. “I grow tired of hearing that God has a reason for every bad thing that happens.” Bile rose in his throat, but the desert raging in his mouth forbade him to swallow it down. “Bad things happen because there are bad people in the world, nothing more.” Bad people, of whom he was one. “John is … John is …” He ran a hand through his hair, unable to even say the words out loud. “This is all my fault. I should have known Tripp would try something. I should have checked the sails and supplies myself.” Luke sank back down onto the couch and dropped his head in his hands.

He heard the rocking chair squeak and felt Mrs. Barnes’s wrinkled hand on his arm. “This isn’t your fault, Luke.”

He raised a shocked gaze to her. “How can you say that?”

“Not everything is your fault, Luke. Not your parents’ death and not John’s kidnapping.” A peace Luke envied glowed from her glassy eyes. “Your pounding head is your fault. The gambling, the drinking, those are your fault.” She shook her head. “Not John’s kidnapping.”

Sitting on the stool, Cassandra unlocked the small wooden chest, replaced the key in the pocket of her gown, and opened the lid. Hope sparked in some small part of her that still believed in miracles—hope that the money would be there. But of course, it wasn’t. Though she refused to believe any of her family or servants could have stolen it, that seemed the only logical conclusion. But who? It pained her to even think of it. Removing her father’s pipe, she raised it to her nose and drew a whiff of the fragrant, spicy smell.

“Oh Papa, what am I to do?” Toying with the pipe, she glanced over her leafy-green gardenia bushes, the fading sunlight spilling from their leaves, replaced by the golden glow from the lantern overhead.

After purchasing enough food for a week with the money Marianne
had loaned her, Cassandra had headed home, still baffled by the sight of Luke’s ship anchored in the bay.

“He must not have caught a prize, Papa, for that is the only reason I can think of that he would have returned and not come to see me.”

The wind whistled over the panes of glass in the solarium, and Cassandra released a heavy sigh. “And if that is true, I fear, Papa, that we are done for.” She certainly couldn’t borrow any more money from Marianne and Noah. And what were they to do when the food ran out in a week’s time?

Her gaze landed on her father’s Bible tucked within the chest. Closing her eyes, she pictured him sitting in his chair in the library, the Holy Book opened in his lap, his blue eyes, so full of life, glancing up at her as she entered the room.

“Come here, my darling Cassie,” he would say as he set the book aside. And Cassandra would crawl into his lap—her favorite place in all the world. Then he would stroke her arm and kiss the top of her head and tell her how much he loved her.

The Bible seemed to glow from within the chest. Cassandra rubbed her eyes. She was seeing things. Memories of what Marianne, Reverend Drummond, and even Margaret had told her of God’s love, purpose, and provision flooded her mind. But none of it could be true, could it? Not when He had taken so much from them.

A tear slipped down her cheek. “Papa, I don’t know how to take care of Mother and my sisters. We have no money. Soon, no food. I haven’t paid the servants in weeks. Why would someone steal from me?” She fisted her hands and pounded her lap. “Why was I so foolish to keep the money here? Oh Papa, why did you leave me all alone?”

Nothing but the rustle of the wind answered her as the last traces of sunlight slipped from sight. Cassandra drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. There was only one thing left to be done. If Mr. Heaton had indeed returned without a prize, then Cassandra would have no choice but to accept Mr. Crane’s courtship. She would not allow her family to starve or end up on the street because of her own selfishness.

The crank of the door latch drew her gaze to the front of the solarium. Those unruly urchins. Couldn’t they leave her alone for one minute? But then heavy footsteps thumped on the hard dirt, giving her pause. Her heart hammered against her chest. Cassandra peered between the leaves of a bush just as a deep voice said, “Hello.”

Mr. Heaton stood just inside the door, cocked hat in hand, gazing over her bushes. Her heart took on a different sort of thump. She slowly rose. His eyes met hers. A smile lifted his lips. “Good evening, Miss Channing. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

Cassandra could not find her voice. Perhaps it had been swept away in the tide of hot waves that flooded her at the sight of him standing there in his black boots, brown breeches, and white shirt. Absent the neckerchief and waistcoat propriety dictated. Aside from a few loose strands, his black hair was tied behind him, and there, peppering his chin was the ever-present stubble, as if his beard were as stubborn as he.

An imposing figure so out of place among her flowers. Yet she found no fear within her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Why, no, Mr. Heaton,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you is all.”

“Your maid.” He gestured toward the front of the house. “She said I might find you here.”

Margaret.
Cassandra flattened her lips. She would speak to her later.

He took a step toward her. “So, this is why you always smell like gardenias.”

Cassandra smiled. “I love these flowers.” She caressed one of the leaves. “I come here to think.”

“And I have disturbed you. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I come on an important matter.”

It occurred to her she’d been so happy to see him that she’d not even considered that he’d come with news of a prize. “I saw your ship at anchor earlier in the day.” Cassandra approached him.

“Yes, I sailed in late last night.”

“How did you get past the blockade?”

She thought she saw a flicker of unease pass over his blue eyes.
“Destiny
is swift and hard to see in the dark.” He would not meet her gaze.

“Did you capture a prize?”

He shook his head, and her hopes tumbled. “Not this time, miss.”

Cassandra’s throat burned. She fought back a flood of tears. Even if Mr. Heaton caught twenty prizes in the next six months, it would be too late to keep the house and provide food for her family. She pressed a hand over her stomach.

Mr. Heaton grabbed her elbow and leaned toward her, his face full of concern. “Are you unwell, Miss Channing?”

“Yes … No.” Warmth spiraled up her arm at his touch, and she pulled
away from him. “I had hoped”—she waved a hand in the air—“oh, what does it matter?” She eyed him. “You smell like a tavern, sir.”

He frowned. “I’m on land again, miss.”

“Why are you back so soon?”

“I needed supplies.”

The statement made no sense to her, but she didn’t inquire further.

Shifting his stance, Luke gazed out the windows onto the back garden. “I went to see Marianne today.”

The odd statement jarred Cassandra, and she dared a glance into his eyes—so close she could see the lantern light flicker in their depths.