Keturah Page 5

  The girls watched Verity’s falcon continuing to fly in circles, ever widening but always keeping the Restoration in sight. Then he tightened his attention on a portion of isolated dock, tucked his wings, and dived straight downward. Keturah turned, not wishing to see or even think of the soon-to-be dead rat. Not that she cared for rats; she detested them. But the thought of …

  A low whistle brought her head up. Gray was beside her, leaning over the rail, watching with them. “That certainly is a fine bird, Miss Verity,” he said admiringly.

  Ver looked past Keturah to him. “Why, thank you. I would wager that the gentlemen of the Falconer’s Club are relieved to hear he’s off to the West Indies. I half expected that some might appear here to wave farewell to their fiercest competitor.”

  Verity had shown up every one of the men in the Falconer’s Club contest when Brutus brought back not one, not two, but three rabbits in the allotted time. Keturah would never forget the look on the men’s faces when she’d arrived without invitation. In deference to her absent father, the doting men had allowed her to compete as a lark. After her victory, however, half were delighted and amazed, the other half red-faced and furious, desperate for Miss Banning to be on her way—never to set foot in the club again.

  Gray laughed, a warm, low sound. Keturah chafed, frustrated by how even his laughter did something odd to her belly, and turned to Verity. “Verity, a lady never wagers or even mentions it,” she groused under her breath.

  “I was only jesting,” Verity whispered, frowning at her. Her confused expression told her she wondered what was truly bothering Ket, and when her moss-colored eyes moved to Gray, they softened in understanding.

  Which only agitated Keturah more, of course. Taking a deep breath and letting it out through her nose, she said, “I think I shall take a turn around the deck. Stretch my legs. Come along, sisters.”

  The two fell in step with her. They were nearly three steps away when Selah glanced back. “Are you not coming, Mr. Covington?”

  “I think not,” he said graciously. “Someone ought to stay here in case Miss Verity’s falcon returns, should they not?”

  Selah smiled and then shook her head, sending her blond curls bobbing. “Oh no. Verity could go miles from here and that falcon would find her.”

  “Truly?” he said, stepping after them.

  “Truly! Isn’t that right, Ver? You don’t even seem to fear us setting sail while Brutus is out.”

  Verity turned back and tilted her head, considering, then nodded once. “’Tis true.”

  “Consider me even further impressed,” Gray said with a slight nod to Verity. He offered the youngest Banning his arm, and she took it. It was all Ket could do to keep from rolling her eyes as she turned to lead the way around the ship. They’d been so nearly apart from him, but Selah—with her constant desire to include anyone within her reach—could not restrain herself from inviting him along. Honestly, her younger sisters might usher her to an early death.

  They came to the stern and found four of their servants circled around, laughing and teasing one another. Catching sight of Keturah, Gideon straightened and nudged Edwin. The two others hurriedly fell into line behind them. “’Tis well,” Keturah said, waving her hand. “A bit of liberty now is good for us all. We’re soon to set sail. Pass the word to the others—we will not have need for any of you to attend us until shortly before supper. Until then you are free to do as you please.”

  “Thank you, Lady Tomlinson,” said Primus, bowing his head with its short-cropped hair. “Will you wish for us to be in livery this evening, ma’am?”

  “Only you, Primus. You can attend us. Make certain Grace returns to our cabin by five to help us dress.” Keturah hadn’t seen the girl since they embarked, but judging by Primus’s calm expression, she was somewhere about.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, nodding again deferentially.

  The others followed suit.

  They walked on by. It agitated Keturah that they had not found her and asked her permission before they took some time to themselves. Was that not what their mother had always demanded? And yet there wasn’t anything they were to do beyond stow the Banning wares. In truth, there was naught for any of them to do before supper. How long had it been since an expanse of hours lay before her with so little to fill it?

  A bell clanged. “Release the mooring ropes!” shouted the first mate. “Prepare to make way!”

  His commands were immediately repeated across the decks. Men went scurrying up rigging to the halyards—crossbeams that held the sails. Shielding her eyes, Keturah could see others climb even higher, awaiting further commands. Her heart began to race. It was truly happening. They were about to leave England for … forever? For quite some time, she reassured herself.

  Suddenly she feared that this was the worst decision she’d ever made, though something in her thrilled to the hope of what the new adventure would bring.

  “Mooring ropes loose and secured, Captain!” cried a man.

  “Mooring ropes secured!” Captain McKintrick yelled, taking his place behind the huge wheel as Burr stepped aside. His eyes scanned the horizon ahead of them, observing skiffs and rowboats hurriedly getting out of their way. “Let loose fore and aft staysails!”

  Again it was repeated along the length of the Restoration.

  The sails were unfurled, falling fast and heavily to their full lengths and filling with the morning breeze with a satisfying whoomp. Beneath Ket’s feet, she felt the ship surge forward, the pier sliding slowly away. Men and women on the docks lifted hands and hats to them in farewell. The sailors waved back, and as Keturah and her sisters joined them at the rail, so did they. When they were a fair distance from the small boats that crowded the wharf and others could clearly see their path, Captain McKintrick called for the jibs and then topsails.

  With a whoosh and a ruffling noise, one sail after another was unfurled. They caught the breeze and snapped outward, filling into wide arcs. The ship groaned, as if complaining at the combined strain upon her masts, and the Restoration rapidly picked up speed.

  Verity took one arm and Selah the other. She knew Gray hovered nearby, but it was her sisters that she was most aware of in that moment. They were heading to the Indies. It wasn’t a dream anymore, nor a madcap idea. It was reality.

  In half an hour they were among ten other vessels. In an hour they were one of three within sight, and England looked impossibly small behind them. Within two hours they could not see land at all. The Restoration was at full sail, tilting at twenty degrees with the strength of the wind and slicing through the water at thrilling speed.

  They’d stood there in silence through it all, as if in stunned reverence. It was Brutus that seemed to break them out of their reverie, with his sharp cry as he circled high overhead. With a smile, Verity strapped on her leather sleeve and lifted her arm, beckoning him to come. He circled again, his head darting left and right, assessing, and then on his third pass he flew down to alight on her arm.

  Nearby, the sailors cheered as if she’d just performed a feat of magic, and Gray smiled so broadly that Keturah had to look away. He cut so fine a figure, and when he smiled … well, she didn’t care at all for what her heart did when that occurred.

  Gray accompanied the Ladies Banning to their door and then bade them a brief farewell, knowing they would see one another again at the captain’s table. It had not escaped him, Keturah’s careful methods of ignoring him, even when he was in her immediate proximity. Was she truly so angry over his offer to look after her and her sisters? Clearly he had overstepped his bounds, but would she punish him for the remainder of the trip?

  He went to his cabin and grabbed a pail, heading to the hold where he knew the passengers were allowed to retrieve one bucket of fresh water every other day. He stood in line with servants, his face burning at the impropriety of it. After all, his brother had offered him one of his own slaves at a bargain price, aghast at the idea that he was to go on this voyage with nei
ther footman nor valet to accompany him.

  But Gray knew that he would need every pound and pence to his name to do what he intended on his new estate and could only afford to pay Philip, a man who had become more friend than servant. He’d read countless books and memoirs, spoken to a score of planters who had spent time on plantations in the Indies, consulted professors of agriculture. No, he had not the funds to hire more servants. His plantation would require every bit he had to man it. In the meantime, he could suffer the social embarrassment and bathe and dress himself. I am no child. No fool, desperate to prove himself with social niceties rather than seeing to his future. Because my future is at Teller’s Landing Plantation. I am the newest owner of a plantation, a planter, he thought, practicing the words, trying them on for size. And once I make that a success, respect shall come.

  He concentrated on that fact as he dipped his bucket in, well aware that a trio of black faces stared at him in silent consternation as he did so. But as he turned and walked past them, he thought, This won’t be the last time you see me. In fact, once he got to the plantation, he expected he’d be unlike any planter the slaves had ever seen before. He wanted to be in the fields, digging in the dirt, hauling manure and settling it around each cane seedling. He wanted to know his land from a foot deep and upward, not be told of it as he lolled about.

  Because his time as the idling younger son of James Randall Covington was over. And his time as the master of the soon-to-be-profitable Teller’s Landing was just beginning.

  Chapter Four

  In his cabin, Gray carefully poured out a portion of the water to reserve for use the next day. As he undressed, bathed, and shook out a clean shirt from his trunk, he considered Keturah Tomlinson again and why she might have taken such affront.

  He knew that something dire had happened between her and Lord Tomlinson, and the thought of it made his head pound in fury. Partly his anger burned for the older man, who had clearly abused her in some way, making her wary of all men. Yet part of his anger was reserved for himself, because by the time he had become aware of her engagement, it was too late. In point of fact, he hadn’t even realized he might wish to consider anything beyond friendship with Keturah until the day his mother had casually shared the fact that Ket was to be married a fortnight hence to Lord Tomlinson.

  He could still see his pretty mother in the warm light of the parlor lamp, the words slipping from her lips in such an offhand way. But her eyes had been sharp upon him, penetrating, well aware of her effect.

  There had been no recourse for him. He had not the means to court one such as Keturah Banning. He was years away from amassing the fortune necessary to approach her father, not even having a home of his own, which was vital if one was vying for a bride.

  A bride. Seeing her in her lace and finery that day had left him unaccountably despondent. To pick up one of the fine dining room chairs and smash it against the wall. To laugh uncontrollably. To drink until he forgot his pain. All of which he did with some gusto, finally, after the wedding party had waned and he was alone at home again.

  Nothing was the same after that. He had chalked it up to losing one too many of his childhood friends, those who abandoned the champagne and dances and furtive walks among the gardens that led to long kisses, and take their places among the boring, staid adults they’d mocked for years. Not that Keturah had ever been like that. She was far too serious to engage in the antics that had distracted him since they had come of age. But when she walked down that aisle … something seemed to come unhinged within Gray.

  It was his brother Sam who had found him among the sharp remains of the chair, several deep gashes in his mother’s wallpaper. A slave had hovered in the doorway, her eyes filled with fear. But Gray could only alternately weep and laugh.

  Sam had crouched down before him, put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. They were silent for several long breaths together. It was the only moment of compassion he could remember from his brother since they were boys. Then he’d said, “You’re a young fool, Gray. ’Tis time to end this before you become an old fool. But you must be the one to decide that.”

  Later, as Gray splashed his face and then watched as the water dripped back down to the bucket again, he considered his brother’s words. At first he’d been enraged, but days later he’d decided it was truth. And the truth felt as bracing as this water in the bucket before him. Had not the Lord himself been telling him the same thing? His path was going to bring him nothing but pain and boredom; it was an endless cycle of seeking the next conquest, the next daring thrill, each of which became progressively harder to find. He needed challenge, hope, something beyond him. And he’d found it when his eyes scanned the map of the West Indies framed in his father’s old study.

  Now he had only to make his inheritance produce something grand. Perhaps then all might look his way anew. He shaved his cheeks smooth, splashed tonic on his face, straightened and tucked his shirt into his waistband, then tied his neckcloth in a smart knot and pushed the ends inside his collar. He reached for his jacket and tugged it across his shoulders, thinking of Keturah and her sisters. Briefly, he considered the adorable Selah, who was the prettiest of the three by far, and certainly warm in her attentions. Or Verity with her fascinating way with animals. She was rather attractive too.

  He stood with arms outstretched, bracing himself against the doorframe, thinking. About Selah. About Verity. He might have some success in courting either of them. But no, if he were honest with himself, it was Keturah who drew him most. With her smoldering golden eyes and deep intensity, even with her apparent wounding and defensiveness. But it was her surprising gumption to do this—to head off to the West Indies—that seemed to awaken his old, belatedly discovered attraction to Keturah. What sort of woman did such a thing?

  “The sort of woman, Covington,” he muttered to himself, releasing the doorjamb and straightening his coat, “who can never be yours.”

  ———

  Promptly at six, Keturah and her sisters were led to the captain’s quarters in the aft portion of the ship by their servant Primus. As requested, he’d donned his perfect black-and-white livery, and Keturah appreciated that he’d taken the time to shine his buckled shoes. The women had dressed in evening gowns, and as they made their way down the cramped hallway, Ket worried her sisters would not pay attention and step on her own gown’s short train, a lovely burnished copper color. So far, they had not, even as they struggled to walk a straight line as the ship moved to and fro over the waves.

  Perhaps they truly were becoming women of care and consequence, she thought. Mother would be proud. At twenty-three and a widow, Keturah thought of herself as far their senior. But Verity was already twenty-one, and even Selah had recently celebrated her eighteenth birthday. She knew she ought not think of them as children any longer—after all, they’d bravely taken on the decision to accompany her to Nevis, something that made many adults quake at the thought—yet she resigned herself to always thinking of them as her chicks to be kept in line. Perhaps it was an older sister’s lot, whether one was twenty-three or eighty-three.

  Would that I might reach the ripe age of eighty-three! She had known a few women who had reached their eighties, but no men. Most she’d known in society died in their fifties or sixties, when fevers swept through and winnowed out many in their declining years. It was as if Death went through the orchard of the living, cutting down those trees no longer producing fruit, or those too young to yet do so. The old and young, always dying, as well as some in between. Mother, Father, oh how I miss you …

  She blinked back tears, realizing they’d reached Captain McKintrick’s quarters. He and his first mate, Mr. Burr, greeted them. She curtsied and hurriedly moved to the chair at the captain’s right when the first mate slid it out from the table for her. Once seated, they were introduced to the other guests already at the table. A Mr. Munroe Smith, a long-nosed tutor on his way to Nevis to school the Grimshaw children. He stood beside the balding, round-f
aced Mr. Odell, a merchant who hoped to build three stores in Jamaica, St. Christopher, and Antigua, all specializing in fine linens.

  There were four other gentlemen present: a pair of young society men about Verity’s age, whom Keturah soon gathered intended to do little more than gamble in every port, and two shipwrights on their way to the shipyard of St. Christopher, one of whom wore spectacles. The two gamblers engaged in a hearty conversation with the shipwrights. Ket hoped the more honest, earnest pair would keep from falling into the more wily pair’s hands. Because from the start, she sensed that Mr. Wood and Mr. Callender, the gamblers, were up to no good. There were far too many days ahead on their voyage with little to distract them.

  Gray Covington took a seat at the far end. He was in a clean shirt and coat but wore no powdered wig like the first mate and most of the men did. A pang of regret ran through her. As much as his presence irritated her, she’d rather it be him across from her or by her side than the abrupt first mate, or the captain who was already paying far too much attention to Verity, quizzing her about Brutus’s “last English prize.”

  A steward poured wine into their crystal goblets that were fashioned with uncommonly wide bottoms, perhaps to keep them more stable. When all were served, Captain McKintrick lifted his goblet and surveyed each of his guests. “May the sea be kind to us and the winds favor our journey.”

  Keturah smiled benignly, even as the captain hurriedly turned to raise his glass to her, then to Verity on his other side.

  “Is your cabin to your liking, Lady Tomlinson?” asked the first mate in an obvious attempt to be pleasant.

  “It is quite sufficient,” she answered. “But I wonder if my sisters might have access to additional storage. With all their trunks, their quarters are quite cramped.”

  “I fear that shall not be possible,” the first mate grumbled, setting down his goblet as a steward brought the first course, a savory stew, before them. “Every spare inch of this ship is full of wares bound for the Indies. Half of them with the Banning name on the crates, I expect.”