Keturah Page 6

  Half? It was an outrageous claim. Keturah sucked in her breath and held it, refusing to bite. There was something familiar about the first mate’s ways, something that reminded her of her late husband, Edward. He’d never been one to mince words or choose the polite way to word a response to her—at least after he’d married her and had her safely at home at Clymore Castle. After I had no escape.

  She inhaled slowly, willing herself to maintain her poise. “Now, Mr. Burr, you and I are both aware that we paid our fair share for every square inch that our cargo has taken in your hold. Did we not?”

  He looked over at her with hooded eyes as he hunched over his bowl of stew, then shifted his attention to the meal before him. He didn’t have the temerity to respond. Instead, he waved her away as if she were a pesky fly.

  “Do be good enough, Mr. Burr, to answer the lady,” Captain McKintrick said, his voice tinged with warning. All semblance of merriment in his eyes was now gone as he stared at the older man.

  Conversation ceased as everyone glanced from the captain to the mate and back again.

  Mr. Burr wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a swig of wine, and stared dolefully toward his superior. “Very well, Captain. I shall answer the lady.” The way he said lady made Keturah feel as if he thought her the very antithesis of it. He turned toward her. “Yes, Lady Tomlinson, you paid for your cargo space. We have been fairly compensated for your cargo, cabins, as well as passage for your slaves. I only hope that you do not think of this vessel as some parlor at sea. We are a working ship, intent on getting to the Indies as fast as possible, and getting on to America. Anything that gets in the way of that causes me … agitation.”

  “Mr. Burr,” said the captain, his voice rising abruptly, “a word. Outside.”

  “No, Captain,” Keturah quickly said. “I appreciate your coming to my aid, but this ship, as grand as she is, is hardly big enough to contain such animosity. Shall we not clear the air here and now? Shall we not all enjoy a more peaceful voyage if we do?”

  The captain appeared caught between his rage and his desire to please her. But when she stubbornly held her seat, he took his seat again and gestured to her to continue. “Please.”

  “Mr. Burr,” Keturah began, “why is it that you seem to resent our presence upon the Restoration?”

  He tucked his chin and studied her a moment. “May I speak frankly, Lady Tomlinson?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Under the table she twisted her napkin, fighting not to cower in the face of his uncouth, frosty manner, or in the heat of attention of every other guest at the table.

  “I believe that women of station have no business sailing to the Indies, certainly not without the protection of a man. I think it rather foolhardy. And I believe that you are a temptation to my crew. A dangerous distraction. There is a reason that women are considered ill luck on the high seas.”

  The captain leaned forward, fingers steepled before his nose, rage radiating from him. But he held his tongue, allowing her to reply.

  Keturah swallowed hard again, wishing she could take a gulp of wine. “I see,” she said carefully. How she handled this, she knew, would color the rest of their voyage. “You have a right to your opinion, and I shall take your warning under consideration. Believe me when I say that my sisters’ well-being is my utmost concern, and we do not wish to be a distraction to your crew.”

  “A ship has no quarter to coddle the fairer sex,” Mr. Burr pressed, his eyes slowly drifting down her neck and up again. “Now I must not only see to our demanding schedule, but make certain you and yours are not … molested.”

  The vague threat behind his words proved too much to bear. She rose so abruptly that her thick skirts knocked over her chair. Thankfully, Primus caught it and set it to rights behind her. Every man around the table rose too, the last being a reluctant Mr. Burr. But she was not done.

  “Rest assured that traveling to the Indies was not a mad, girlish lark, but rather our only possible decision, Mr. Burr. I would ask that you give us the respect that such a dire choice deserves, rather than treat us in such a demeaning, churlish manner. It is beneath you, is it not?”

  “’Tis most certain, lass,” the captain said gravely. “And mark me, should Mr. Burr share your table, he shall not speak to ye in such a manner again.”

  Slowly, Mr. Burr bent and reached for his goblet, lifted it in silent toast, and took a deep drink of it. “I shall not address you in such a forthright manner again because I think we have come to an understanding,” he said, gesturing her back to her seat as if dealing with a trifling girl.

  She paused beside the captain. “I refuse to dine with a man who threatens me and mine. Either you have control of your crew or you do not. Do you?” This she directed to the captain.

  “Rest assured, Lady Tomlinson, I do. Regardless of what Mr. Burr intimated.”

  “That is heartening to hear. Nevertheless, this has quite taxed me. I think it best my sisters and I take our meal in our rooms this evening.”

  Regret passed over the captain’s face. “That is most understandable. Good evening, Lady Tomlinson.”

  “Captain,” she said with a brief bob. “Gentlemen.” She nodded to the rest, carefully avoiding looking at either Gray or Mr. Burr.

  As she swept from the room, her sisters right behind her, she heard the young gamblers trying to cover laughter beneath the pretense of coughing and felt her cheeks blaze at the spectacle she’d been a part of creating.

  But there was nothing for it. She simply could not stand to be in the presence of the first mate—nor how he raised the spectre of her late husband—for one moment longer.

  Chapter Five

  “What a fine piece of female countenance,” whispered Mr. Wood as the captain set to grumbling with the first mate, gesturing a beefy hand toward the door and gritting out words they could not quite hear. “What a fine, fine woman.”

  “What do you think her story is?” whispered his friend Mr. Callender. “Her sisters are prettier, but did you see the lady’s eyes? They’re positively bewitching. Catlike.”

  “And she clearly has claws to match,” Wood said. “I take it that she is a widow. I wonder if she has a chest full of gold to match those eyes. If so, I think I—”

  “Gentlemen,” Gray interrupted in a choked voice, leaning forward as he struggled to keep his temper in line. He’d barely kept his tongue—and his seat—throughout Keturah’s exchange with Burr. “The Misses Banning and Lady Tomlinson are friends of mine. I would ask that when you speak of or to them, you speak with respect.” He eyed Wood for a long moment, then Callender.

  Begrudgingly, he hurriedly shoveled in a spoonful of stew. Whilst he wished he could follow after the women, he knew it was not his place. Besides, he had no stores of extra food in his cabin. He’d paid his fare for the passage, including meals, and he was bound and determined to collect every morsel owed him.

  “You are friends of theirs?” Callender dared to ask with unconcealed glee. “What a boon for you! Three women ready to hang on your every word and look to you as the protector the mate demands.” He gestured down the table to where the captain and mate had taken their seats again, but ate now in silence.

  Gray scowled at him. “Clearly, you do not yet know the Misses Banning and Lady Tomlinson.”

  “Come now, man,” Wood scoffed, leaning back in his chair, wine goblet in hand. “The only unattached women of consequence on board this ship appear to be more than acquaintances. Do not tell us you do not intend to press your advantage.”

  If only that I could, Gray lamented. But in turn, he knew that it might be best if these men thought the girls were attached to him and under his protection, even in so slight a measure. He shrugged.

  Wood bumped his companion on his shoulder. “What of a wager?” he whispered. “I bet that Covington here succeeds in persuading one of those girls to fall for him during the course of this voyage. What could be more romantic than sunset strolls aboard ship?”

  Call
ender offered his hand. “I’ll take that wager. But make it solely Lady Tomlinson. She’s the key, and judging from Mr. Covington’s eager defense of her, she’s the one he wants. If he ends this journey with the lady as his intended, you win. But if he does not—and judging from that feisty female’s manners, I think he shall not—then I win. What are the stakes?”

  “Gentlemen,” Gray said, intent on intervening. Of all the rude, audacious suggestions. “This is hardly suitable fodder for a wager.”

  “A pound?” said Wood, ignoring Gray.

  “A pound? Make it three, you coward!” said Callender with a taunting smile.

  “Done,” said Wood, shaking his friend’s hand. Gray didn’t miss his new perusal of him and how a shadow stole over his face—he doubted his chances with Ket. Belated wisdom as he calculated his odds, Gray thought. Every man at this table could see Keturah was not a woman to swoon before any man.

  Gray sighed and shoved another spoonful of stew in his mouth, seeing how this would progress. He’d be saddled with them both, Mr. Wood trying to maneuver him into intimacies with Keturah, and Mr. Callender endeavoring to keep him from it. Both scenarios were intolerable. But the wager was set. The two had shaken hands.

  He pointed the two tines of his fork at one and then the other. “I shall allow your silly wager to stand. But I warn you both, keep out of my way, as well as Lady Tomlinson’s. What transpires between the lady and me during the course of this journey is none of your concern, only the outcome. Agreed?”

  Callender lifted his hands and eyebrows, the picture of innocence, and Wood followed suit. Gray sighed again, heavily. And then as the two gamblers attempted to engage the cantankerous captain, he finished his stew, his mind back on Keturah and that beautiful copper gown. It had made her eyes practically glow, and the way the gown had clung to her curves … well, he knew he wasn’t the only man on this ship who might continue to think of her this night.

  It pleased him to consider that Wood might even have a chance to collect on the wager. But he sided with Callender. Keturah Tomlinson clearly needed time. Time to heal from whatever abuses Lord Tomlinson had meted out to her, time for her heart to heal, and time for her to explore what it meant to be a West Indies planter. Gray had spent a year in preparation; Keturah had had a matter of two weeks. His darker side thought he ought to bet the young gamblers on her odds.

  Gray knew she had the intellect and tenacity to run a plantation. But could she truly manage the enormous challenges that would face them both on their respective lands? Rude men like Mr. Burr would be the least of her concerns. He sliced into the roast lamb that was served to them next and considered the two halves of the meat. Half of him was glad that he would be but a mile away from her, able to come to her assistance if she needed it. But half of him dreaded it. Because if she chose not to reach out, he’d be forced to watch her falter and not intervene. He knew that society mixed on-island on a frequent basis. What would it be like to see her and her sisters struggle but not be invited in to help resolve it?

  He bit into the lamb and forced himself to chew, tasting bitterness. If only he had been born the eldest.

  If only he had not been forced to seek his own fortune.

  If only Keturah hadn’t been betrothed to another.

  If only it had not taken seeing her wed another to confront his feelings for her.

  If only it had not taken him so long to see the folly of his ways. To find a way forward that might garner some respect.

  If only … if only …

  He forced himself to swallow the meat and take another bite, chew, and wash it down with wine. Well, he was weary of if-onlys. God had made a way for him in the Indies; he could see it. And who had the Almighty placed on his very own ship? Lady Tomlinson.

  Perhaps … just perhaps, Mr. Wood wasn’t the only one betting on his chances with Keturah. The thought of it set his pulse to racing—that God himself might have a hand in his circumstances. You’re a fool, Covington, he told himself, unwilling to get carried away with such fanciful thoughts. Keturah is not at all ready to risk her heart again. Look at how defensive she’d become with Mr. Burr. No, the only thing on her mind and in her heart was her land, her sisters, and saving their plantation and Hartwick.

  But perhaps I can be by her side if I assist her with those things, he thought. Her plantation. Her sisters. Saving the family’s old manse. If he could find a way to assist her in making Tabletop successful, protecting her sisters and saving Hartwick—all while he made a fortune from his own plantation—would she see him differently, in time? Could something new grow between them, something beyond the vestiges of a onetime friendship?

  No, Callender would most assuredly win this bet. By the time they reached Nevis, all Gray could hope for was a measure of civility, perhaps friendship again, between them. But after a year on Nevis, or two?

  He took another swig of wine and watched as the steward refilled his glass. The conversation had turned to Mr. Smith, the tutor, and the family he was to serve. But Gray heard little of it. His mind was entirely on Keturah and how she might look in a gown the color of Madeira red.

  Keturah was still trembling by the time they got back to her cabin—both enraged and shocked at the first mate’s behavior. Deep down, she had to admit she was a bit surprised at her own fortitude and how she’d spoken to the man. She was torn between shame and pride.

  Never had she dared to hold her ground or speak to Edward in such a manner, at least not after that first tepid attempt. To do so now made her feel both stronger and wrought with fear, an odd twining that fairly twisted her heart in two.

  Verity said, “Well done, Ket. Well done! That man has not been in polite society for some time, it seems. He does a discredit to his station. First mate! How does the captain tolerate such a man?” Her eyes shifted back and forth, as if silently arguing both sides. “Perhaps he’s a fine sailor.”

  Selah was pacing and wringing her hands. “I am not so certain, Ket. Do you truly believe that was the best way to handle such discomfort? Could you not have laughed his poor behavior away and preserved the evening?”

  “It was the only way,” Keturah said firmly, pacing in the opposite direction in the tiny room, nearly colliding with her sister. “With men like that …” She lifted her hands and then cut outward, letting her motion say the rest.

  She knew her words were heavy with history, with meaning. Both of her sisters sat down on her cot and watched her pace a while.

  “Was it truly that awful, Ket?” Ver asked carefully after a long moment of silence. “With Edward? Was he somewhat like Mr. Burr, then?”

  Keturah looked down into her sister’s eyes, surprised that she had so easily made the connection. At first, her instinct was to deny it, but Verity’s expression was soft, caring, making her momentarily weak. They had not known Edward. After the wedding, he had squired her away to his castle in the far north and never allowed Keturah’s family to visit, nor her to go to them. “It was … far worse,” she said.

  Verity’s jaw clenched a moment. “I’m so sorry, dearest.”

  “But surely he wasn’t so awful. Not every day,” Selah tried, her innocent heart in her eyes.

  But it was time that Selah knew how awful men could be, so that she might not be lured into a trap like Ket had found herself.

  “Every day,” Keturah corrected, pacing again, three steps forward, a turn, then three steps back.

  “But he was merely unkind in speech,” Selah tried again. “Like Mr. Burr. Rude?”

  Keturah drew up and rubbed her forehead, feeling an ache building there. “Edward was unkind to me in a myriad of ways.” She sighed heavily and placed both hands on her hips.

  Both girls stared up at her. Selah’s mouth gaped open slightly. Verity’s remained a grim line.

  “But … Mother and Father thought it was a fine match,” Selah tried again, her voice high and tight, and Ket’s heart melted a bit. “Aunt Elda crowed about your union until she lay in her deathbed.�
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  She didn’t want her sister to think poorly of their parents, or even Aunt Elda—Cecil’s mother—who had thought she’d done Keturah the ultimate favor. “They did indeed. And on the surface, it was true. Marrying the Earl of Avaline made me the envy of every girl we knew. Truth be told, I was proud of the fact that I was to become Lady Tomlinson. Me. The least pretty of the Banning sisters.”

  Both girls murmured their feeble complaints against her self-recrimination, but she ignored them.

  “The reality of our marriage …” Keturah sank to the cot between them, feeling unaccountably burdened, beyond her wide, heavy skirts. “The reality of our marriage was a horror.” She took a hand of both of her sisters and drew them into her lap. “So I hereby pledge to never encourage, entice, or force either of you to take a man’s hand in marriage. I want you each to choose for yourselves. To know, to truly know and love the man you wish to marry.”

  They were silent a moment. “But he shall have to be approved by the other two sisters,” Verity said firmly.

  “Of course!” Keturah laughed, eager for a bit of levity. “Always. Let us pledge to always look out for one another and guard one another from a man’s mistreatment, regardless of that man’s situation or how much said man promises his ‘love.’”

  “I pledge it,” Verity said, squeezing her hand.

  “I pledge it,” Selah repeated, still looking a little dazed.

  Girls in their circle had had dalliances with beaus, secret affairs of the heart, but few had managed to meet those same men at the altar. The best marriages were between two where love happened to grow, over time. Mother and Father had enjoyed just such a relationship, and Ket had hoped for the same with Edward. She had so hoped for it. But try as she might to please him, it was never enough. And then it became ugly …

  A knock at their door was a welcome interruption to her dark memories. Startled, she rose and went to it. “Who is there?”