Heart's Safe Passage (8 page)

“Revolting. How will I get my breakfast?”

“Maybe you can bang on the door and get someone down here.”

“That would be so vulgar. I should wait for someone, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care what you do.” Phoebe curled up as best she could in the narrow space on the floor. “I want to sleep some more.”

But a knock sounded on the door, and the child called out for permission to enter.

“Of course, my dear.” Belinda sounded awake and cheerful.

Phoebe moaned.

The lad entered, bringing the tannic aroma of tea and the buttery fragrance of toast.

“Uh-oh.” A thump sounded from the region of the table. “I’ll fetch my—the captain.”

His what? Uncle? Brother? That they were related was obvious. Regardless, Phoebe didn’t want him near her.

“Don’t.” She sat up. “I’ll manage some tea.”

“It helps, I can assure you.” The lad’s eyes twinkled. “Captain Rafe suffers from the sickness sometimes too. It’ll go away.”

“If I don’t die first.”

No sense in saying the sea didn’t bother her, the locked door did. They would think she lied to get her freedom.

Belinda scolded.

The lad laughed and scampered from the cabin, ragged hair swinging, long legs flashing. Long legs ending in curved calves, slight ankles, and dainty feet. Rather too elegant and petite for a boy of even eleven or twelve.

“Lad, my eye.” Phoebe struggled to her feet.

Belinda stared at her from where she sat at the table, no doubt waiting to be served. “What are you talking about?”

“Our friend Mel. Do you want jam on some of this toast?”

“Yes, and I hope they bring us more than tea and toast. I usually have sausages and eggs.”

“This is a ship. They don’t have sausages and eggs.”

Thank the Lord.

“I’ll starve.” Belinda’s lower lip protruded.

Phoebe ground her teeth to demolish the words trying to reach her lips. She would get nowhere and nothing but grief if she told Belinda she looked in no danger of starving. Indeed, even with her condition being more advanced than she’d originally told Phoebe, Belinda appeared to have gained a great deal of weight since they’d last met in April. No doubt she was getting no exercise. Phoebe would have to see to that. A daily walk made delivery easier.

A daily walk aboard a ship? Not if they remained locked in. She would have to talk to Docherty about that—and a number of other matters. One in particular.

“I’ll fetch out some of your stores.” Phoebe spoke a little too loudly to drown out her own thoughts. “Some raisins? Some dried meat?”

“Yes, both.”

Phoebe served Belinda her breakfast because she and everyone else had always served Belinda. Because serving her proved easier than listening to her complain. She seemed totally selfish, yet she risked her life, risked being tainted a traitor, to accept the word of a stranger, the enemy, in an effort to save her husband.

She’d been that devoted to her brother too. George might be worth the danger.

Phoebe prepared a meal for Belinda and began to organize the boxes of provisions to keep herself busy, to keep herself from thinking of Belinda’s brother, of the confinement of the cabin, of her own queasy stomach, of her current circumstances.

She couldn’t avoid those. Through the skylight, she caught the rumble of Docherty’s voice, the lilt of his young relative’s, others’. Locks surrounded her—on chests, on the weapons rack, on the cabin door.

The lock on the door clicked as Phoebe dug sewing materials out of a box for Belinda. Phoebe straightened and faced the portal, expecting the captain with orders as to what he intended to do with his recalcitrant prisoner.

Instead, Mel entered bearing a copper jug from which steam emerged. “Hot water. And I’ll bring you more ginger water, Mrs. Lee. But you really ought to eat something.”

“I know.” Phoebe dropped onto the nearest chair. She knew what she needed to ask, but the words lodged in her throat.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Chapman?” Mel asked.

Belinda swallowed her mouthful of raisins. “Never better. But I’m used to sailing. My husband took me on his schooner up to Baltimore and down to Norfolk many times. Phoebe prefers to ride.”

“If God wanted us on water, he’d have given us fins.” Phoebe forced herself to smile. “Thank you for serving us, Mel. Is your—is the captain leaving our care to you?”

“Aye, mostly. He says you will do me no harm.”

“He’s right.” Belinda cast Phoebe a hard glance.

“Of course.” Phoebe took a deep breath. “Will you ask him if I may please speak to him? I . . . I’m . . .” She swallowed and looked around the cabin. “Alone. That is, without an audience.”

“Aye, I’ll ask him.” Mel handed Phoebe the ginger water, then crossed the cabin to one corner. There she set the can of water on the deck, balanced between her feet, and pulled a shelf from the bulkhead. “You have a washstand now. Fold it up when you are finished with the washing up.”

“That’s so clever.” Belinda sprang up and made her way to the corner. “Where’s the—ah, you keep the bowl tucked behind.”

Clever indeed. Phoebe glanced around. Did other sections of the paneling conceal hidden compartments with less mundane cargo than a washstand and basin? More than likely. She would seek them out, if Belinda let her.

For the moment, she remained motionless, uninterested, as though nothing but her ginger water lay on her mind. Which was close to the truth for the time being.

“I will talk to Captain Rafe about you wanting to talk to him,” Mel said.

Phoebe nodded and watched the child strut from the cabin.

In the corner, Belinda happily splashed in the water, washing up as best anyone could with a basin, soap, and a sponge. The aroma of lavender bloomed through the cabin. Unless she found something else, Phoebe would have to use the lavender soap too, and she was already weary of Belinda’s excess with the fragrance. She didn’t have any of her own things except the handful of gowns she had packed for what she thought was a mercy trip to Williamsburg. She still huddled in Docherty’s boat cloak.

Belinda poured more water into the basin. Phoebe roused herself enough to request she save some for her.

“I will, but you’ll have to pour out what’s in the basin. It’ll take two hands, and I might fall.”

“Which is one reason why you shouldn’t be on a brig this size. The risk—”

“Never you mind the risk. I’ll be careful, and it’s worth it. Will you help me cut out some clothes for me to sew for the baby?”

“Yes, of course.” She might as well. The hours, days, weeks stretched ahead without much hope of a change.

At least Phoebe hoped for no excitement, as that would likely mean a gun battle with another vessel, maybe even an American.

She shuddered and drank more ginger and awaited her turn to wash. When it came, she made quick work of it, wrinkling her nose at Belinda’s lavender soap, frowning more at the wrinkled state of her gown. Her hair proved hopeless. She gathered it into a ribbon and tied it atop her head. The effect likely made her look like a chrysanthemum, that flower she’d seen once on a journey to Philadelphia with her husband, but at least her hair was confined away from her face with little trouble. If Docherty would see her outside the cabin, she wouldn’t be embarrassed.

Not that she should be. He was the enemy, a man who stood for everything she abhorred. But she must talk to him. She’d wronged him too.

She finished readying herself for her first full day aboard the brig and gathered up the fabric Belinda wanted to sew. It was of the finest lawn, soft enough not to irritate a baby’s skin, and the color of fresh cream.

“Do you have patterns?” Phoebe knelt on the now gently rolling deck and began to spread out the fabric.

Belinda raised her head from a book she’d been reading. “Pattern? Somewhere, I think. Wasn’t it with the fabric?”

“No.” Phoebe returned to the box.

The door lock grated. She froze, every sense alert like a dog’s pricked-up ears, to see who would enter.

Mel again, this time with the nasty little dog in tow. The former smiled that elfin grin. The latter sat and glared at Phoebe.

“If she bites me again,” Phoebe said, “I’ll toss her overboard.”

“That’s what Captain Rafe says.” Mel grimaced. “But he doesn’t mean it. He loves Fiona.”

“Which doesn’t speak highly of him,” Phoebe muttered.

“You should be nice to him,” Belinda said. “He didn’t lock you in the hold last night.”

“And he says I can take you up top,” Mel said. “Mrs. Chapman too, so we can clean in here.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe’s stomach settled. It should remain that way on deck—she hoped. If she got sick in front of him again, she’d lock herself in the hold.

She gathered up his boat cloak, realized she shouldn’t be using it without his permission, and started to put it down again.

“You’ll want that.” Mel drew Belinda’s from the back of a chair. “It’s cold out there, even in the sun.”

So Phoebe wrapped herself in the cloak that dragged on the deck behind her like a train, and followed Mel, Fiona, and Belinda up the companionway and onto the main deck.

Wind like the blast from an icehouse slammed into her face. She gasped and braced herself against it, turning her face away. Belinda squealed and tried to retreat.

“Nay, madam.” The mate called Jordy appeared down the quarterdeck ladder and took Belinda’s arm. “The captain says you’re needing exercise, and I’m to walk with you to hold you steady.”

“Why, that’s so kind of you, sir.” Belinda batted her long eyelashes at him. “Such a handsome escort.”

Jordy was attractive, with his silver-gilt hair tied in a queue at the back of his neck and his strong, regular features, but
handsome
seemed a bit overdone, and Phoebe glanced away to hide a grin. She met Mel’s eyes, and they laughed.

“Jordy will get tongue-tied if she keeps flirting like that,” Mel whispered.

“’Tis good for him.” Docherty appeared at the quarter rail. “You wish to speak with me, Mrs. Lee?”

“Yes, I—” She looked down at the borrowed cloak.

“I do not care if you wear my boat cloak. Come up if you like, Mrs. Lee. Mel, you and Tommy Jones go clean up the cabins.”

Mel’s fine features tightened. “Not Tommy, please. He—he’s so unpleasant to be around.”

“Is he now.” Docherty’s face hardened. “To you?”

“He says naught to me. ’Tis what I dislike above all things. He just grumbles and mutters . . . stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?” Docherty’s tone was so cold and hard that Phoebe took a half step backward and caught her heel in the extra length of the cloak.

“I will go with our imp here.” His black eye now turning all sorts of colors from green to yellow, Watt leaped from the quarterdeck and rested a hand on Mel’s shoulder. “Tommy has a bee in his bonnet about doing women’s work.”

“No work aboard a vessel is women’s work.” The chill remained in the captain’s voice. “Set him to scrubbing the lower deck if he won’t clean cabins.”

“Rafe—er—Captain—” Watt began, then stopped, nodded, and started forward.

“Scoot, imp,” Rafe said to Mel in a gentler tone.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Mel gave him a salute so exaggerated it verged on insolent.

Docherty sighed. “There’s no disciplining the lad.”

Phoebe climbed the quarter ladder so she stood at least close to level with the captain and looked him in the face. “No lies between us, sir, please. It’s obvious to me that’s a girl.”

“Aye, I should have known you’d work it out this quick. ’Tis too obvious.” He leaned against the rail and scrubbed his hands over his face. Beyond him a dozen feet away, the helmsman looked on with concern. “’Tis more obvious since she took the notion to cut her hair so she cannot braid it and stuff it down the back of her jacket. I do not ken how that is possible.”

“It’s softer, perhaps.” Phoebe’s hand twitched, wanting to reach out and touch him. Wipe away a trouble he shouldn’t have if he didn’t have a child aboard a brig in constant danger. She grasped the rail with both hands behind her, for she no longer felt like giving him comfort. “This is scarcely the place to raise a child, let alone a girl.”

“You tell Melvina that.” His lips twisted.

“What do you mean? This is your ship.”

“Brig.”

Phoebe flipped one hand in the air. “What does it matter? It’s a vessel of war. You’re the captain. Put her ashore.”

“You ken naught of it.” He turned on Phoebe. “What do you want from me other than set ashore?”

Words of apology slipped from Phoebe’s mind. She set one hand on her hip and willed her temper to be obedient. “You are irresponsible keeping that child aboard. What if an enemy took her, harmed her? Could you live with yourself knowing you were responsible for something awful happening to—who is she? A relative, that’s obvious. Your sister? Do you want your flesh and blood—”

“Madam,” Docherty interrupted in a voice as low as that of a growling feline, and just as hair-raising, “state your business or get off my quarterdeck.”

“I, um, I—” Phoebe gulped. She turned her face away from him. The bracing bite of the wind steadied her, took away the last of the malaise in her middle with the clean, open air. “I’m sorry. I care about children.”

“And you’re thinking I do not?” Though still low, his voice had gentled. “Believe me, you are wrong in that. I care about two things in this life, and Mel is one of them.” He hesitated a beat, then took a breath loud enough to hear over the wind and surf. “She’s my daughter.”

5

In less than ten hours, Rafe had learned one thing about Phoebe Carter Lee that Williamsburg gossip hadn’t taught him—little left her speechless. His announcement of Mel’s parentage did. It left Mrs. Lee wide-eyed, gape-mouthed, and, above all, silent.

One corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched upward. “Something surprises you, madam?”

“I—well—” Her pale cheeks grew rosy in the morning sunshine. “You can’t be old enough to be Mel’s father,” she blurted out.

“I’m two and thirty. She turned twelve years last month.” An ache punched through his chest for the mere lad he’d been at her birth, so joyful, so proud, so certain his life held everything he wanted and more, despite not expecting to be a father that young. “I married her mither at nineteen, so you ken there’s naught improper about her birth.”