Beloved Castaway (28 page)

Thus far, nothing had been mentioned regarding the missing captain of that vessel. The few who’d witnessed the man’s trek from the deck to the waters of the gulf had been paid well to disappear. Of course, Andre had paid others even more to seek these exiles and eliminate them altogether.
 

A sign from his watchman told him someone approached. Andre nodded, and a dark-cloaked man of compact stature was allowed to pass the first guard unimpeded.

“Monsieur Gayarre.” He offered his hand in a firm handshake.

Andre noted the thick accent and decided the man was from Spain or perhaps Cuba. Caution suddenly became more important. “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced.”

“I beg to differ,” he said as he raised a dark brow. “I sent letters of introduction that should suffice.”

Andre made eye contact with the guard stationed inside the
warehouse and saw the man nod before returning his attention to the
stranger. “The letters you offer list a name that does not seem to fit,
sir.”

The man stared at him, then shook his head. “You are right, and for your safety, it is preferable we keep my name out of this. I assure you the letters are authentic.” He paused. “But then, I am sure you know that.”

He did, having personally contacted each man whose signature appeared on a letter. All said the same thing: John Miller was a man of great means and infinite discretion.

“Shall we walk?” Miller said.

Andre glanced past the stranger to his guards. “I’ve a better idea. My carriage awaits, and it will afford a measure of privacy that a walk will not.”

The stranger considered the idea. “I, too, have a carriage nearby. Several, actually. I’m sure you understand that I will require my men follow us.”

“Of course.” Andre fell in step beside the man, trying to memorize his features in case the information was needed later.

Once inside the carriage, the man wasted no time making his proposition. “It has come to my attention that you are in need of a vessel.”

Andre leaned back against the seat and feigned indifference as the carriage lurched into motion. “First a question. How did you find me?”

“I was apprised of your situation.” The man shrugged. “Beyond that, there is nothing you need know.”

“My situation?” Andre forced a laugh, yet he wondered what, if anything, the man actually knew.
 

“My friends are your friends, although I am sure you understand the need for discretion in any dealings you might have with me.”

The carriage made a turn onto the broad avenue leading away from the docks. “What sort of fool does business with a man who will not identify himself?”

The stranger gave him an even stare, his dark eyes barely blinking. “A desperate one.”

There was no good response to the statement.
You depend on me, Andre. Without me and my money, you have nothing.
His father’s words. Andre swallowed hard, yet the bitter taste of the truth remained.

Until Emilie stood in his father’s parlor with the dreaded Bible and letters, there was nothing to do but beg for crumbs from his father’s table.

John Miller made to reach inside his cloak, and Andre reacted immediately. Before the stranger could blink twice,
Andre
beheld a pistol inches from his nose.

The man’s laughter stunned Andre, as did the folded paper Miller removed from his cloak. Disregarding the weapon, the stranger tossed the document into Andre’s lap.
 

“What is this?” Andre said as he holstered his pistol.

“An offer of sale on a ship much faster than the tub you last attempted to give chase in.” He looked away, gazing out the window as if dismissing Andre altogether “By the way, my price includes a second ship. Perhaps you know of it.” He paused. “It is called the
Jude
.”

The deal struck, Andre ordered the coachman to stop and let the stranger out. “On the morrow, then,” Andre said.

“On the morrow,” the stranger replied as he disappeared into the darkness.

Andre’s evening plans no longer appealed. Rather, he would use the time to prepare for the journey he would take very soon. “Home,” he told the coachman.

The lamplights still burned when Andre burst through the door, but his father was not about. “All the better,” he mumbled as he traversed the distance between the hallway and the tray of bottles in his father’s study.

In keeping with Father’s newfound desire to abstain, the tray was nowhere to be found. Andre was about to call for the help when he spied the letter on the desk.

“The handwriting,” he said as he lifted the page and began to read, “is undeniably Emilie’s.”

A moment later, he set the letter down and smiled. “England is cold this time of year,” he said with a grin. “And Fairweather Key sounds like a lovely place to visit.”

---

According to Mrs. O’Mara, the month of May had arrived. The woman set such stock on May Day, as she called it, that she prepared a special breakfast and added an arrangement of golden blossoms she called tickseed to the tray.
 

To Josiah, they looked like the yellow coneflower that grew alongside the herbs in his mother’s cottage garden back in Virginia. The thought sent an uncharacteristic pang of homesickness through him.
 

Rather than consume the bounty set before him, Josiah reached for Isabelle’s Bible. The pages had dried to a wrinkled mess, but the words were clear and readable. On more than one occasion, his hostess had offered to replace it with one in better condition, but Josiah refused.

He turned to a page and opened it, knowing not where the text would lead. “Honour thy father and thy mother,” he read, “as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”

And so it went once again, an exhortation to honor the one man who deserved no such respect. Reaching to the Bible for comfort had instead provided a challenge.

Josiah shut the book and set it back on the table. How easy to argue that when the Bible was written, Hezekiah Carter did not yet exist. It was fool’s logic, of course, but trying to believe it gave him a measure of relief.

The door opened with no hymn preceding it. A vaguely familiar red-haired man in workingman’s clothing stood in the threshold. He looked as if he had grave doubts whether to enter or leave.

“Land sakes, Mr. Tate,” Mrs. O’Mara said, “get on in there and stop wasting time.”

He nodded to the jailer, then ducked to step inside, removing his hat to clutch it against his chest. When the door swung shut, he jumped as if he’d been shot.

“You get used to it,” Josiah said. “Sorry, it’s a poor joke.”

The man’s face flushed, but he looked Josiah in the eyes as he thrust his hand toward him. “Micah Tate,” he said. “I’m the owner of the
Caroline
.”

“I thought you looked familiar.” The man’s handshake was firm, his face honest-looking enough. Josiah gestured toward the bunk. “Won’t you sit?”

“Thank you, but no,” Tate said. “I’d rather speak my piece standing up.”

“All right then.” Josiah leaned against the bunk and nodded. “Go on.”

“The men and me, well, we feel bad about what happened to you.” He looked over his shoulder as if checking to see if they were alone. “Not a one of us believes you’re guilty of what you’re accused of. I’ve personally met your family and some of your crew, and they’re good folks.”

“My family and crew?” He sighed. “Aye, thank you. I hired good men where I could find them, and William is a good lad.”

“And the ladies. . .” The scarlet in his face flamed deeper. “Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know we’re working on Judge Campbell to let you go.” He paused to study the toes of his well-worn boots. “I reckon every once in a while the judge needs to prove there’s crime enough to keep him on the payroll.”

“I see.”
 

Tate’s gaze swung up. “Miss Gayarre says there’s no money for your bail.”

“Had I any money, Mr. Tate, I would use it to pay for the funerals I’ve caused and the men who no longer have work.” His heart lurched. “So Isabelle Gayarre has awakened?”

The wrecker looked confused. “No, it’s Miss Emilie Gayarre I speak of.”

“Ah.” He nursed the disappointment for a moment longer before extending his hand to Micah Tate. “I appreciate your visit, Mr. Tate, and I would ask that you tell the other men I am in their debt.”

So much debt. Lord, only You can repair this damage.

Slowly, the red-haired man stepped back. Strange, but it almost seemed as though he had more to say. Finally, he spoke. “There’s a man in town. Just rolled in with the tide. Heard some of the men down at the docks saying he’s been asking about the
Jude
. I figured
you ought to know that maybe someone’s come to see to getting
you out.”

So Hezekiah had found him. Josiah affected a casual attitude. “Is that so? Did he happen to mention his name?”

“Don’t know, but the boys said he acted like he knew you. Said he mentioned you by name.” Tate jammed his hat back on his head. “I haven’t seen him, but if I do, I’ll ask.”

“No need,” Josiah looked down at his bare feet and borrowed clothes. “I’m sure he will find me. I’m certainly a captive audience.”
 

Tate gave him another awkward look, then knocked on the cell door and called to Mrs. O’Mara.
 

Josiah shrugged. “I seem to be making poor jokes today.”

After the wrecker made his exit, Josiah sat on the bunk and closed his eyes.
 

“Lord, I know what you say about honoring your father, but I’m not so sure you’ve ever met Hezekiah Carter.” He looked up at the watermarked ceiling and spoke to He who was not bound by such limitations as jail cells. “Were I to admit it, I am no saint either. Therein lies the conundrum.”

---

Isabelle stretched and opened her eyes. A room came into view that was at once cozy and unfamiliar. Near a window that framed a view of an undertaker’s office beside a harbor full of boats at anchor and men laboring, a woman worked with needle and thread.
 

Moving her head to the right, Isabelle could see the other side of the chamber. A curtain of dark velvet had been drawn together to cover what might be a door. On either side of the curtain were tables of some elaborately carved style. Each had been situated with a tall vase filled with flowers in a riot of colors.
 

Turning farther, she spied a bookcase where every sort of volume seemed to rest alongside strange objects and tiny, framed silhouettes of men, women, and children. Just beyond the bookcase was a desk
of massive proportions that held an assortment of papers in neat
and orderly piles, each topped with something to keep the sea breeze from whisking it to the floor.

The oil lamp burned on the desk, casting a golden glow across the pages and disappearing into shadows behind the overlarge leather chair. Remnants of the lamplight poured through a prism-like paperweight and speckled the quilt that lay atop her with rainbow dots.

A movement caught Isabelle’s eye. She turned to follow it and found it was Viola Dumont who sat near the window. The needle in her hand caught the light each time she pulled it through the snow-white fabric in her lap.

Outside, wisps of white clouds slid along the horizon and dis-appeared from view. The sky, so blue it hurt to look at it, was otherwise clear and bright. A man dressed in the fine clothing of a gentleman strode across the docks, his cane tapping a rhythm she could almost hear. Several men stopped their work as he passed, but none greeted the dandy.

Isabelle watched for a moment, unsure whether she dreamed.
There had been so many dreams.
 

Fire.
 

Water.
 

The smell of sickness and death.
 

Emilie.
 

Viola.
 

Someone referred to only as
Doctor
who never seemed to have good news.
 

Another named Mrs. O’Mara who spoke of Josiah in hushed terms.

Mrs. Campbell who laughed much.

Mr. Tate who didn’t.

All of it she’d surely imagined. Or had she?

Her fingers traced the pattern on the quilt. Vaguely familiar, it was, yet she knew she’d never been in this room until now.

But when was now? She glanced out the window and guessed it must be nearing midday.
 

Her attention returned to Mademoiselle Dumont. She wore a look of peace and contentment and even hummed softly as she tied the knot and began to rethread the needle. Once the deed had been accomplished, she stabbed the needle into the pincushion and sighed.

She held the fabric up as if to study it, and Isabelle could see the garment was a man’s shirt. “The man has exceedingly broad shoulders,” she muttered as she rose and headed for the velvet curtains. “I do hope it fits.”

Parting the curtains, Mademoiselle Dumont stepped out and called to someone whose name Isabelle could not quite hear. “See that this is ironed and sent to Mrs. O’Mara along with the other clothes immediately, please,” drifted through the small opening in between the panels of velvet.

A moment later, the mademoiselle returned and took up her seat by the window. She reached into a basket near her feet and pulled out another piece of cloth. This one was smaller and pale green in color, and it might have been the bodice to a dress. As Isabelle looked closer, she could see that the fabric was sprigged with pink flowers.

Isabelle watched a moment more, then cleared her throat. “Mademoiselle Dumont, what are you sewing?” She must have spoken aloud, for her companion nearly fell from the chair.
 

The mademoiselle tossed the garment into the air, seemingly heedless of where it landed. “Did you truly speak, Isabelle?”

She tried but could not respond.

Chapter 24