Surrender the Dawn (42 page)

Cassandra grabbed her arm and spun her around. “You will do no such thing. I demand to know what you were doing looking through my father’s chest!”

“Nothing.” She stared at the ground.

Closing the lid, Cassandra set the chest down on the bench and fingered the key in her hand. Her mind swam in the confusing horror of betrayal. Then the realization hit her.

“You.” She gaped at the woman. “You stole my money.”

Mrs. Northrop backed away, wringing her hands. She bumped into a gardenia bush. “It was Mr. Crane. He made me do it, miss.”

“Mr. Crane?” Cassandra shook her head. Why would the man do such a thing? Her legs weakened, and she sank onto the stool. “He wanted my family to be beholden to his charity,” she spoke her thoughts aloud. “He wanted me.” Cassandra stared at the trembling housekeeper. “Why would you agree to this?”

“He paid me a good sum, miss. An’ I wasn’t getting my due from you.”

“You should have come to me.”

Mrs. Northrop’s eyes misted. “What are you going to do, miss?”

Drawing a deep breath, Cassandra squared her shoulders and stood. “You are dismissed at once. Gather your things and leave this house by nightfall. Is that clear?”

Tears wove crooked trails down Mrs. Northrop’s cheeks.

“Where is the money?” Cassandra demanded.

“I gave it to Mr. Crane. I didn’t keep any of it, miss. I swear.”

“Very well.” Cassandra gestured toward the door. “Get out.”

Mrs. Northrop’s bottom lip quivered. Clutching her skirts, she tore from the solarium.

An hour later, with the sun’s hot rays forming beads of perspiration on her brow and neck, Cassandra hurried down Liberty Street on her way to the
Baltimore Register
to confront Mr. Crane. Fortunately, for him, he was not there when she arrived. “But I expect him to return in a few hours, miss,” his clerk had declared. “May I give him a message?”

“Indeed.” Cassandra waved her fan about her face. “You may inform
Mr. Crane that I know he stole my money, and he will return it or face charges of thievery.”

The poor clerk’s face had blanched considerably at her statement, but she hadn’t stayed to witness any further effects. Now, hurrying down Pratt Street, Cassandra was exhausted and overheated, but too angry to care. Darkness cruised the city, absconding with the light. She needed to get home.

Unable to resist, she stole a glance at the wharf where
Destiny
was docked, hoping for a glimpse of Luke. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. Wasn’t entirely sure what he was up to. But certainly a glimpse would do her no harm. It might even help her recall how much she cared for him. Though, in that regard, her heart needed no reminder.

What she saw halted her on the spot. There on the wharf, which sagged beneath its weight, were dozens and dozens of barrels, crates, and sacks ready to be loaded onto Luke’s ship. And still more came, carried by workers trudging down the dock. Luke’s crew scrambled across the ship as Mr. Abbot stood atop the bulwarks, directing the men in bringing the supplies aboard, whilst Mr. Sanders—if she remembered his name correctly—stood by his side, scribbling on a paper in his hand. Luke was nowhere in sight.

Why would a privateer need that many supplies? Enough to feed dozens of privateers for a month, by her estimation. Though they did not know how long they’d be at sea, certainly stuffing the hold would allow no room for the goods they’d confiscate from the British.

It made no sense.

A surge of torrid wind clawed at her bonnet and stole the breath from her mouth. She gripped the brim of her hat, standing her ground.

What was Luke up to? If she confronted him, she couldn’t be sure he would answer her. She’d accepted that he was a private man. She’d accepted that something heavy weighed upon him as Mr. Abbot had told her. What she couldn’t accept was him doing anything subversive with her money.

Since he was to set sail on the morrow, there was only one way to find out the truth. And that was to stow away on his ship and see for herself.

But Luke did not set sail the next day. Or at least Cassandra hoped he hadn’t. By the time she had arrived home that night, rumors rampaged
through the city that British troops were marching into Washington, DC. Warning bells rang incessantly as terror held the city in its tight grip through the long hours of the night. And although some citizens bravely stood on Federal Hill to watch the distant glow of fires raging through the capital, Cassandra had stayed home to comfort her mother, who was enduring a fit of nerves at the unhappy tidings.

Then, the following day, before anyone could recover from the tragedy and discover the fate of their great nation, the storm hit. Winds as fierce as any Cassandra had experienced stampeded over the house, seeking entrance into their shelter and flinging spears of rain at their windows. In the glow of candles, Cassandra, her sisters, mother, servants, and Dexter had huddled at the center of the house, waiting to be blown away.

But after a few hours, the winds abated, the rain ceased, and the clouds withdrew, leaving behind toppled trees, torn-down fences, and the joyous news that the British had retreated from Washington. Margaret, who had been appealing to God all through the afternoon, gave praise for His mighty deliverance.

Cassandra was not so sure.

Nor was she sure why Mr. Crane had not been by to answer her accusation. Nor why Luke had not come calling to see if she and her family had suffered any injuries from the storm.

After spending the rest of that day and most of the next one cleaning up the wreckage and helping neighbors do the same, Cassandra now stood before her dressing glass in her chamber as evening tossed shadows upon the unusually quiet town.

“Miss, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Margaret’s reflection behind Cassandra was one of anxiety. Her normally rosy cheeks had gone pale, and her eyes sparked with fear. Cassandra gazed at her visage in the mirror. Baggy gray breeches stuffed in oversized boots, a white cotton shirt covered in a gray waistcoat and black overcoat. A red neckerchief rode high upon her neck. Atop her head a cocked hat perched. Noting a rebellious curl peeking out from the side, she stuffed it back in place, giggling at the sight.

“Even with the bandages around your chest and the dirt on your jaw and chin, you still look like a woman, miss.” Margaret touched Cassandra’s arm. “Please don’t do this. It’s far too dangerous.”

“Oh, bother, Margaret. You fret too much,” Cassandra said. “I’m far safer wandering about town looking like this, than dressed as a lady.”

“What if he has already set sail?”

“Then I shall come home.” Though she knew Luke hadn’t left yet—had heard just today from Mr. Dayle, who had ventured out for supplies, that
Destiny
had survived the storm unscathed and was preparing to leave that night.

“I’ll sneak on board Mr. Heaton’s ship before anyone sees me. No one will know I’m there.”

Margaret shook her head, the normal luster gone from her eyes. “But what if you are at sea for weeks, months even, before you discover what you wish to know?”

“You mean that the man I love might be a traitor to our country?” Cassandra tugged her hat farther down on her head as the last rays of sunlight withdrew from her chamber. “I’ll find out the truth soon enough. Mr. Heaton doesn’t seem to be gone for more than a week or so at a time.” Which also didn’t speak well for his innocence. “If too much time passes, that will prove my suspicions wrong. Then I shall reveal myself and beg his forgiveness. I’m sure he’ll bring me home immediately.”

“What will you eat and drink?”

“I have enough food and water to last four days in my knapsack. Plus, I imagine there’s plenty of stored food belowdecks.”

“What of the rats?” Margaret shivered.

Cassandra’s belly gurgled in queasiness. “I shall have to endure them.”

“I do not see why you cannot just ask Luke.”

Cassandra swung around. “Do you think if he’s betraying his country—and me—that he’ll tell me the truth?” She walked to the window, nearly stumbling in the awkward boots. “No, I must find out for myself. This is the only way. I cannot”—she swallowed down a lump of heartache—“I cannot give my heart to a man who is a liar and a traitor.” She plopped down on the window seat. “All my life, I only wanted someone to depend on.”

“You can depend on God, miss.”

Cassandra smiled. “Such a saint you are, Margaret.” Rising, she grabbed a piece of foolscap from her dresser. “If I do not return tonight, give this letter to Mother tomorrow. It will explain everything.” At the look of horror on her maid’s face, Cassandra took Margaret’s hands in hers. “Never fear, I shall return soon. Tell the girls to behave. And do watch over them now that Mrs. Northrop is gone, will you?”

“Of course.” Margaret nodded. “What if you discover Luke
is
a
traitor and he …” Margaret looked away. “He …”

“Luke wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t believe that. Fear spiraled through Cassandra, pricking at her resolve. Perhaps she should just call off the courtship and let it be. But if her suspicions were true, how could she go on spending money gained by the blood of her countrymen? No, she must find out for sure.

“Now, go make sure no one is below so I can make my escape.”

Margaret stopped at the door. “God go with you, miss. I shall pray for you every day.”

Twenty minutes later, with head lowered and a knapsack strung over her shoulder, Cassandra did her best to march like a man down the muddy street. In her trek to the wharves, not a single person stopped her, most barely gazed at her: ladies with children hurrying home; groups of merchantmen; the chandler, Mr. Sikes, who didn’t seem to recognize her. One gentleman had even bumped into her and offered no apology. Cassandra smiled beneath the shadow of her hat, even as an odd feeling of being ignored settled on her. Odd because wherever she went she usually drew quite a bit of attention. It had never occurred to her that some people drifted through life like shadows, their presence rarely acknowledged. Pondering this, she hastened to the wharf where
Destiny
was anchored. She knew Luke usually set sail close to midnight and since it was no later than eight, she hoped only a few crewmen were on board.

What she didn’t expect was the swarm of workers and sailors hauling all manner of crates and barrels onto the ship. Again. Perhaps they’d been forced to unload everything during the storm. Halting near the dock’s entrance, she searched for Luke, but he was nowhere in sight. However, in the light of several lanterns hanging from the main and fore masts, she spotted Mr. Abbot and Mr. Keene marching across the deck, bellowing orders.

Now, how to get on board?

Across the bay, the retreating glow of sunlight quivered over frolicking dark waters. Bare masts rose like spires of defeat into the bowl of night descending upon the city. Only Luke’s ship was a plethora of activity.

Cassandra’s heart thundered against her ribs. It wasn’t too late to turn around and go home, sleep in her own warm bed. But if she did, she would be more fool than coward. And she would not be made a fool of, nor abandoned by some man who was even better at lying than charming the opposite sex. Or perhaps the two went together.

Taking a deep breath as if she could inhale courage, she picked up a box that was sitting atop a barrel and hefted it onto her left shoulder. Though it wasn’t too heavy for her, the sharp edges bit through her coat as she eased into the line of men heading toward the ship. Keeping her head behind the box, she followed the man in front of her, hoping she didn’t trip on her way onto the ship. Already her boots—borrowed from Mr. Dayle—rubbed the skin on her ankles to soreness. Ignoring the pain and the fear screaming in her head, she stepped onto the teetering plank, watched it bow beneath the weight of the large man before her, then leapt onto the deck with a thud. Pain shot up her legs, and she stumbled for a second as the ship rocked.

“Hurry up, there, boy!” the man behind her yelled, shoving her forward. Thankfully before Mr. Abbot saw her. Navigating down the companionway ladder was no easy task, especially with one’s hands full. Alone, she may have toppled into the darkness below, but the burly men before and after her cushioned her against a fall.

Following the men down another level, Cassandra squinted into the darkness of the hold where only a single lantern swayed from a hook on the deck head. Across a vast expanse of muck and crates, empty-handed men ascended another ladder above. A putrid stench rose up from the depths like some viper to strike her, filling her nostrils and lungs with the smell of mold and waste and something else indescribable. She coughed. Some of the men looked her way. She lowered her head. A man she recognized as one of Luke’s crew, Mr. Sanders, directed the men where to deposit their loads. Cassandra scanned the shadowy hold. Toward her left, beneath a low beam, was a section where the light did not reach. If she could slip away undetected, she could find a place to hide.

Mr. Sanders stopped two of the workers and demanded they lower the crate they carried. “Open it. I want to see what it contains.” His squeaky voice echoed over the waterlogged hull.