Whirlwind (7 page)

“Miss Fairweather, we didn’t speak about the particulars of your employment yesterday.” He clasped his hands behind his back and watched as she buttered and cut Arthur’s toast into little sticks that she lined up like a row of soldiers. Listing expectations seemed absurd; in the moments he’d seen her with his son, the woman had proven to be capable and creative.

Listing his preferences, however . . . This would be the ideal time to stipulate what she wore. This outfit made her look soft and gentle. Attractive, too—all qualities he didn’t want. Daniel’s chin lifted. “So there can be no question as to your role, henceforth you’re to be clad in black and wear an apron. Am I correct in assuming you own such attire?”

She spooned a bite of poached egg into Arthur, neatly slipping a stick of toast into his fingers as he grabbed for the spoon. “I do.”

“Wear it.” With that settled, he pushed on. “My son is to be called by his full name—not Art or Artie.” Henrietta had been quite firm in that, and out of respect for her, Daniel would see to it that her wishes were carried out.

Miss Fairweather smiled at her charge. “Arthur’s a fine name for a strong boy.”

On to pay, then. “The voyage is six days. Five now. That being the case, I’ll pay you for a full week. Consider the extra day you’re paid as your day off, at the rate of seven dollars.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s most generous.”

“My son is worth it. I believe that is all.”

She set down the spoon and lifted the glass of milk, murmuring, “Both hands.”

“All’s well, then. The nursery and parlor are of a size to permit him room to play. Mr. Tibbs will keep informed as to my whereabouts. If my son needs me, send the steward.”

“Yes, sir. Fresh air and a daily stroll do wonders for a child’s health and spirit. With your permission, I’d like to bundle your son in his coat and take him out.”

“Do.”
And I’ll maneuver so I can be along the way and spend more time with my son.

By tea time, Daniel couldn’t stay away any longer. Knowing Tibbs would be picking up the tray, Daniel stopped by the cabin to check on how Arthur fared.

“There you are,” a soft, feminine voice soothed from the nursery.

“Buddy.” Arthur’s sigh carried with it utter contentment.

“You have a nice nap. Yes, let’s cover up Buddy, too. Sleepy-bye.” Miss Fairweather backed out of the nursery and pulled the door shut. Sometime between breakfast and now, she’d changed into a black skirt, plain white blouse, and a blindingly white apron.

“How is my son faring?”

“He’s a delight.” She pulled a face. “Most of the time, anyway. I took his ball away. It’s so big and hard, I’m afraid he’ll break something with it. I’ll see if I can find enough yarn to knit up something softer for him to toss about.”

“What about a pair of socks?” Her cheeks went red, and he immediately tacked on, “I’ve several pair, so I wouldn’t miss them.” He paced to his cabin, pulled out a pair of socks, and crushed them into a tight ball. Black. All of his socks were black . . . as were his ties. Such paltry symbols of mourning.

He and Henrietta had had a sound marriage. Pleasant, even—except for her mother’s infernal meddling. Her mother’s overbearing manner was what first captured Daniel’s attention. While eating at a restaurant, he’d overheard Mrs. Renfroe at the next table. She spent the entire meal instructing Henrietta as if she were a small, wayward child, demanding she assert herself and insist upon playing the church organ. Though he didn’t want to eavesdrop, it would have been impossible to ignore the litany of her daughter’s faults Mrs. Renfroe listed. Among the worst, though, was that she’d reached the age of three and twenty without receiving a single offer of marriage. That pronouncement came just as the waiter served cake to them—a confection decorated with delicate pink icing roses.

No one deserved to be demeaned—and being humiliated while receiving one’s birthday cake seemed so very wrong. As he rose from his table, Daniel intentionally stepped on the hem of Henrietta’s gown. He’d not only apologized, but insisted upon making restitution for the damage by sweeping Henrietta to the local modiste for a new gown. While there, Daniel asked if Henrietta might recommend a church since he was traveling and unfamiliar with her town.

Three months later, Daniel and Henrietta exchanged their vows at that very church. Only once did she ever hint that her life before him had been difficult. She’d said Jesus was her Savior, but Daniel was her knight in shining armor. Daniel knew better. Too wrapped up in business to notice the little things, he’d missed the signs—or so Mother Renfroe later accused. Had she been the only one to say so, he might have chalked it up to her bitter tongue, but Nanny Jenkin also confirmed that Henrietta had been struggling with dizziness during that second pregnancy. Henrietta hadn’t wanted to trouble him, so she’d not complained and tried to get by without his assistance as he put his business before his family. In the end, he’d not rescued Henrietta; his neglect had been the death of her.

The suite lay silent as Daniel let himself in. A single kerosene lamp swung from a ceiling hook over the parlor table. Some of the more modern vessels he’d sailed in had boasted electrical lighting, but the
Opportunity
counted far too many years afloat to feature such appointments. Many a mast still thrust upward from its ship’s deck, bare sentinels to the years that sails had provided the power of navigation before technology made them obsolete.

Having brokered hundreds upon hundreds of business deals, Daniel understood the routine well. The suites on the upper level carried first-class passengers between the two shores, but what lay in the holds below depended on which direction the ship sailed. A vessel such as this would carry a multitude of products from the New World to England. For the return trip, the holds transformed to carry a different cargo entirely: immigrants.

All things considered, Daniel felt pity for the wretches enduring the purgatory below deck. Then again, their very presence had provided his son with a caregiver. Daniel cast a glance at the suite’s second stateroom. At home, he’d been able to slip into the nursery. Indeed, he’d done so often. Originally, it was because he and Henrietta would marvel over the miracle of the child the Lord had given them. After Henrietta’s death, Daniel had been drawn there for solace and to relish every minute he could get with his boy.

Arthur had a habit of sleeping with his thumb in his mouth, his little knees tucked up beneath him, and his bottom in the air. More often than not, he’d escaped his blankets and needed to be covered. Was the new nanny conscientious about that important detail?

For the past two days, Daniel had enjoyed a scant fifteen minutes each morning with his son. Whiling away the remainder of his time on the deck and in the library prudently kept him and Miss Fairweather apart. Rigid adherence to propriety made sure others understood he wasn’t taking advantage of the close quarters.
It’s just for a few more days. All those weeks I traveled on business, I wasn’t with Arthur; he didn’t suffer from my absence . . . or did he?

His son’s lack of a mother nagged at Daniel, yet Daniel refused to let that loss propel him into marriage. A competent, caring nanny could nurture Arthur. Daniel had been so consumed with business matters that important things regarding his wife had slipped past his awareness. In the end, his inattention had killed her. After making such a horrific mistake, he couldn’t imagine taking on the responsibility of a wife ever again.

Today’s ocean calm had permitted Nanny to take Arthur for a stroll. Watching them through the window, Daniel had noted their route. Henceforth, he would occupy a deck chair along their path and instruct the nanny to bring his son to him at nine-thirty sharp each morning. The nanny could wander off and leave Arthur with him for an hour. Pleased with the plan, Daniel took the lamp into his chamber.

The supple leather of his Bible felt good in his hands as Daniel sat beside his bed. He opened to where the black strip of silk marked his place. Since the day he’d determined to make this trip, he’d decided to read a chapter each evening out of the book of beginnings—Genesis. The thirty-ninth chapter of Genesis told a chilling tale of how Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce Joseph. Though Joseph resisted her, she made accusations
. Lord, is this just the next part of the history of your people, or is this a warning to me?
The image of Miss Fairweather flashed through his mind. Clearly, she took excellent care of Arthur—but Daniel knew almost nothing of her.

Troubled, Daniel knelt by his bed. “Almighty Father, I thank you for the safety of this day and that Arthur is thriving. You know my concerns, Father, regarding his present nanny. Grant me a spirit of discernment. Don’t let me be blinded by her kindness to my son.”

He’d no more than finished his prayer than an ear-splitting, grating sound filled the air. It died out, and Daniel remained still for a moment, trying to determine the cause. The ship wallowed through a trough and took a long while to level out. Daniel bolted to his feet. The ship wasn’t moving forward.

Six

M
illicent had just blown out her lamp when a horrid screech filled the air. She jumped out of bed, but it took a few minutes for her to realize the
Opportunity
felt different. The gliding sensation that accompanied the rocking had disappeared. Without the light, she fumbled and scrambled into her clothing. Completely oblivious to it all, Arthur continued to sleep.

Bang!
The outer door to the suite opened.

Racing toward the nursery door, Millicent called out, “Mr. Clark?”

Silence . . . for a brief second. Then she heard shouting in the passageway.

Heart thundering, Millicent had to use the striker half a dozen times before lighting the lamp.
Please, Lord, keep us safe.
She found only one life preserver in the armoire.

Arthur protested sleepily as she lifted him into the impossibly big white vest. He rolled over, and his head slid through an arm hole. The straps each measured at least a mile long, and Millicent wrapped and knotted them. Belatedly, she jammed a cap as best she could on the top of the little boy’s head. She stuffed a pillowcase with nappies, blankets, and a few more of his baby gowns, then scooped up Arthur in one arm and the supplies in the other. By the time she pinched the doorknob between her index and third finger, Millicent’s prayer shrank down to two words she couldn’t stop repeating. “Help, Lord. Help, Lord. Help, Lord . . .”

The parlor carpet squished beneath her foot. Her prayer shortened. “Lord, Lord, Lord.”

A shadow loomed on the corridor wall, then a big male form filled the suite’s door.

“Lord, Lord, Lord . . .”

“Miss Fairweather?”

“Mr. Clark! Here. Here’s Arthur.” Mr. Clark strode toward her and grabbed. “No, not the pillowcase—Here’s your son.”

“Miss Fairweather—”

His steady voice did nothing to calm her. The man simply didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “You’ve got him upside down!” She dropped the pillowcase and rearranged Arthur, then shoved her boss toward the door. “Hurry now. Hurry.”

Mr. Clark refused to budge. “The ship isn’t sinking, Miss Fairweather.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, sir. I won’t be hysterical. You’re all Arthur has. Go!” The stubborn man didn’t move an inch.

Arthur let out a muffled whimper. Millicent tamped down the urge to do the same thing.

“There’s been a mechanical failure.” Mr. Clark leaned forward and enunciated carefully, “Something broke in the engine room. They’re inspecting it even as I speak.”

“It has to be more than that. The floor is wet.”

Tucking Arthur under his arm like an enormous baguette, Mr. Clark went past her, into the nursery. Arthur let out another, louder whimper. “Hush, there,” Mr. Clark said in a reassuring tone. “Daddy has you.” He emerged carrying the lamp. Looking down, he stated, “It appears as though the carafe spilled.”

Disbelief and relief shot through her. Millicent laughed. “Merciful Lord, we’re safe!”

“As ardently as you were calling upon His name, I’m sure the Almighty heard you.” He set the lamp on the parlor table and studied the bundle he held. “What have you done to my son?”

Arthur’s cap was swooped down, covering one eye. His head stuck out of the armhole, and he scrunched the other eye closed as he let out a wail.

“I’ll have him out of that in a trice.”

Mr. Clark’s brow hiked upward. “I seriously doubt that.”

Her boss didn’t relinquish Arthur, so Millicent started to undo the knots. “If you could please lift—yes. And now this way . . .”

“Silk worms couldn’t spin a cocoon this complicated.” He finally shoved Arthur into her arms. “I have a pocket knife in my chamber.”

“No!” Millicent didn’t realize she’d grabbed Mr. Clark’s sleeve until he gave her an odd look. Hastily releasing him, she said, “There’s just this one life vest. You cannot cut it—what if we truly need it for your son later?”

“At the rate you’re supposedly freeing him, he’ll still be stuck in it when we dock in New York.” He paced away and returned with the knife. “Hold him still.”

Clutching the little boy to her bosom, Millicent inched backward, and Arthur let out another loud wail.

“Hush, son. Daddy is here.”

To her amazement, the little boy drew in a few choppy breaths, but he stopped hollering. “Sit down, Miss Fairweather.” Mr. Clark didn’t really have to give the order. The moment the knife came close to her charge, her knees turned to jelly. Next to Arthur, the pocket knife looked like Goliath’s sword. Teasing the tip of it into a knot proved impossible, so Mr. Clark repositioned the blade beneath the strap and sliced clean through.

His big hands stilled just before he cut through a second knot. “Must you do that?”

She loosened her hold ever so slightly.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re praying.”

Heat suffused her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she’d been speaking aloud.

“Where did you learn to tie knots like this?”

“While attempting to braid my hair as a child.” She bit her lip. Embarrassment washed over her—for both her inane babbling and because Millicent realized her hair hung in a thick braid down her back. She was positively indecent.