The Affectionate Adversary (6 page)

After spending much of the past two months in the galley tending injured passengers, Sarah thanked God when the last of them was able to go on deck into the fresh air and sunshine. She did not care for the ship’s dark, smelly hold, and the constantly swaying lamps made her dizzy. Gimbaled, the lanterns safely pitched about with the movement of the waves and did not tip over. But Sarah knew that one careless passenger or a single drunken sailor could set the entire vessel aflame. This fear plagued her despite her best intentions.

Now at an outdoor tea table once again, she observed the white cliffs of Dover with gratitude. It could not be long before she must set sail again, and she intended to make the most of her short time on the blessed firmness of land. Six months, perhaps a year at the most, would allow time to put the affairs of her estate back in order.

With her parents deceased, Sarah felt responsible for her two younger sisters. Mary had wed John Heathhill, an upstanding gentleman who had inherited eight thousand pounds, and she enjoyed enough financial security to reside in comfortable circumstances. Prudence, who was as silly as she was beautiful, had yet to fix her mind upon any one of her many suitors. As Prudence was utterly dependent on the charity of her eldest sister, Sarah had allotted her a thousand pounds a year. Unless their situations had altered since their last letters, the two young ladies lacked nothing. All the same, Sarah had decided to settle the sum of ten thousand pounds on each of them.

Such a generous gift would elate Mary, who had a propensity for hosting balls, grand dinners, and other affairs that put her into the company of the smart and fashionable among London society—the
ton
, as they liked to call themselves. Prudence adored the countryside. Her endowment would allow her to marry well and afford the home of her dreams outside the city.

Thus only one person of any concern to Sarah remained.As the last living heir to the Delacroix family legacy, George’s nephew, Henry Carlyle, had inherited the title, the London house, and the country manor. But the new baron was in no better monetary condition than had been his uncle before him. Because Sarah had brought her father’s fortune into her marriage, it had reverted to her upon her husband’s death.Though some funds had gone into refurbishing the two homes, the actual barony remained nearly penniless.

Lord Delacroix, whom Sarah had met on several occasions, had impressed her as among the most foolish and reckless cads of her acquaintance. Duty called her to consider settling some few thousand pounds upon this wastrel, but she had not made up her mind how much. It had been her father’s money, after all. Now it was hers—and thus, without question, it belonged entirely to God.

Sarah poured herself a second cup of tea and was reaching for the sugar when a man’s hand suddenly appeared around her shoulder and lifted the bowl. She glanced up with a start, but her surprise quickly vanished in the warm glow of recognition that flooded her chest.

“Mr. Locke,” she said, taking the sugar from him. “You have come to tea. How delighted I am to see you. Please do sit down, sir.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carlyle.” Leaning his cane against the table, he seated himself in the chair nearest hers. “You are lovely, as always.”

She smiled, more pleased at the compliment than she wished to acknowledge. “And you have more color in your face today. I believe yesterday’s promenade about the deck did you much good.”

At this, his expression sobered. “A week of regular exercise has done little for my leg. I now walk with a limp. It is as simple as that.”

“A week is nothing, sir. A month or two will tell you more.” She poured him a cup of steaming tea, dropped two lumps of sugar into it, and then gave it a stir. The ship had run short of fresh milk since its last port of call on the coast of West Africa, and Sarah missed its mellowing effect in her tea.

“A week is enough to know,” he replied with a sigh. “My left arm is useless, and the leg is permanently maimed. I doubt that I shall ever ride again. As for the pain, I fear it may abide the rest of my life.”

“Nonsense. You are far too grim, Mr. Locke. If you could see what great progress you have made since your arrival on the
Queen Elinor
, you would be more cheerful. You may recall that you were so near death that we nearly stitched you into a shroud and tossed you overboard. And not long after that, Dr. Winslow was determined to amputate your leg. Had you not rallied, he would have succeeded despite my best efforts to protect you from his knife. No indeed, you are a miracle, sir. I fully expect that you will regain all your former strength and live a long life of service to the Lord who has preserved you.”

One corner of his mouth lifted as he regarded her. “I have never known an unhappy word to proceed from your mouth, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“You have not known me long enough, then. I assure you, I have spoken many unhappy words in my past, and no doubt many are yet to come. But I am of the firm belief that God is with us through every storm, and how dare we complain?”

“I dare very easily. Two months ago, I set sail from England with the aim of establishing a profitable tea trade upon which to build my fortune. Now I return to those same shores, penniless and crippled. If that is not reason for discontent, I must declare myself not only poor and weak but of unsound mind.”

“Once upon a time, sir, I thought you might be quite out of your mind. You raved and muttered and groaned such nonsense as to keep the entire company awake at night. But see how well you are recovered. Just as you have regained your senses, so you will return to health.”

He took a sip of tea and gazed out upon the shimmering white chalk cliffs. Sarah knew she was perhaps too hopeful, yet she could not bear to see this man in such a mournful state. During his convalescence belowdecks, she had often witnessed his glorious smile as she sang to him or discussed the affairs of the ship. Until he attempted to stand and walk, Mr. Locke had been a gentle, kindly sort of person. She had enjoyed his company immensely. Now this dark passion had erupted, and she tried to understand how it had been brooding all along in the depths of his soul without her knowledge.

“I believe,” she ventured, “that your father will be delighted to see you. Perhaps he has heard of the attack on the
Tintagel
and presumes you dead. Think how happy he will be to learn you are alive!”

“My father is ruined and I with him. There can be no happiness in that.” He set down his teacup and raked his fingers back through his thick dark hair. “Our hopes sailed away with those marauders. Their theft of my chest ends our dream of an enterprise built on this very product. Tea.”

Sarah studied the brown-red beverage in her cup and tried to think how anyone could place all his hopes and dreams in such an unsubstantial thing. “Tea is tea,” she said. “But God is the master of all the earth, and in Him should you place your future.”

“As you do.”

“Of course. I have seen enough of the world to know that nothing in it has value beyond what use God may make of it.

Including myself. You must give yourself to Him heart and soul, Mr. Locke, and then you shall see what He does with you. Perhaps your injured leg and arm may matter little to you then, except that they bring Him glory.”

“Bah!” He hurled the delicate china cup to the deck, where it smashed to bits. Growling in pain, he pushed himself up from the table, took up his cane, and made his way to the rail, dragging his left leg across the damp deck.

A ship’s boy was at Sarah’s side in an instant. “Madam, I shall report this incident immediately. The captain will have that man taken down to the galley. Or to the brig.”

With a laugh, she held up a hand. “Good heavens, no, William, for Mr. Locke’s ill humor does not frighten me in the least. When you have swept up the cup, do bring out another, please. It is teatime, after all, and England is in sight. What happier moment could there be?”

As the lad dashed away to fetch a broom, she shook her head. No matter how common and familiar she had tried to become aboard the
Queen Elinor
, the passengers still treated her as her rank demanded. It was so dispiriting. She longed to be simply Mrs. Carlyle, as the injured men called her.They knew her only as the woman who had looked after them, bathed their wounds, sung to them, and insisted they be given the best of the food aboard the ship. Mr. Locke, in fact, had come to speak so openly with Sarah that she considered him far more than a mere acquaintance. He was a dear friend. A companion. A man she had come to care for. Perhaps his anger was a necessary part of his healing. She felt glad he trusted her enough to voice it so openly.

Charles Locke stood at the rail now, the tails of his coat flipping in the brisk breeze and his brown leather boots planted solidly on the deck. Though he limped, the man stood tall and straight, as though nothing could cripple the sense of pride within him. His shattered elbow gave him much agony, yet he squared his broad shoulders in an expression of defiance. Everything about him bespoke strength and vitality. Determination. Confidence. Courage.

Saddened that his physical limitations had so disheartened him, Sarah rose from the table and made her way to his side. From their conversations, she knew he had been educated at Cambridge. His father had been employed as the steward of a duke’s estate in Devon, and neither man was without resource. Though their gold had been stolen, they had their life, their health, and their sharp minds. No doubt they soon would rebuild their fortune and make themselves comfortable enough.

“I do believe this is the loveliest sight imaginable,” Sarah said, leaning her elbows on the rail and knitting her fingers together. “Is not England the dearest isle in all the world? See how the seabirds kiss the water and the sun paints patterns on her cliffs. When I think of all that is contained in this one small place, I am astonished. The cities of London, Leeds, and York. The bustling harbors at Portsmouth, Dover, Liverpool, and Hull. The Pavilion at Brighton, the castles of Northumberland, the churches at Canterbury and Staffordshire. The streams, the moors, the rolling hills, the lake country. Oh, is it not an embarrassment of riches, Mr. Locke!”

A wry chuckle rumbled from his chest. “More so than Burma, China, and India, Mrs. Carlyle?” he asked. “I recall many a conversation in which you sang the praises of the Orient.”

“Aye, yet none can compare to our beloved England. I am so eager to set foot in my own house again that I can hardly keep my toes still.”

She could feel his eyes as he studied her face. Sarah knew she had never been considered a great beauty, and she had no doubt that Mr. Locke found her appearance wanting. On this long journey, she had abandoned the trouble of pinning up her hair in plaits and ringlets. Nor did she wear her finest gowns and jewels. Instead, she chose simple cotton dresses and wound her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. Only the curls at her temple testified to any knowledge of feminine fashion.

She did not mind that a man might find her plain. Sarah had decided as much long ago. She wanted to be plain, that nothing might stand in the way of the truth she prayed would shine through her life.

“And who will greet you upon your arrival in London, Mrs. Carlyle?” he asked. “Your sisters, Mary and Prudence?”

“I hope so. Pru now stays in my house, and Mary’s home is nearby. I shall send for her to call upon me at once. I am eager to hear what has transpired in their lives since my departure.”

“You will have much with which to acquaint them, as well. You told me you had compiled quite a list of places that were to receive the benefaction of your father’s legacy. A printing press in India. A hospital for blind girls in China. A mission in Burma. I believe the world is soon to be much better for your presence, dear lady.”

“Neither my presence nor my father’s money can change the world. Only the saving power of Jesus creates true and lasting change. You do believe this yourself, do you not, Mr. Locke?”

“Certainly. I am a Christian, and my father and I attend church together every Sunday. Yet I cannot say the effect of my faith upon my behavior has been the same as yours. You are … a bit obsessed.”

“Am I?” Now it was Sarah’s turn to laugh. “Obsessed? Such a word! I prefer to call myself convinced. My conversion—and with it the experiences of my childhood, youth, and marriage—has taught me that nothing retains any value outside of faith and obedience. Certainly not a firm stride, or a steady hand … or even a chest of gold.”

At this last comment, Sarah feared she had gone too far. But the man at her side did not respond in anger. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the green shores in the distance. Overhead, the snapping of ropes and canvas mingled with the cries of seagulls and terns. The salty air of the ocean now became laden with the fertile smell of plowed fields and blooming meadows. Land beckoned.

By the next morning, Sarah would bid Mr. Locke farewell. Perhaps he might wish to call on her in London, though she expected they both would be far too busy for such social niceties. This sojourn aboard ship must end, and with it their easy companionship. Sarah knew of no other option, for her commitment to her cause was resolute. And yet, she would miss this man. Perhaps more than she had ever thought possible.

Nights when she had lain alone in her cabin and toyed with the gold chain and key she now wore about her own neck, she had permitted her thoughts to wander too freely. Often, they had marched directly to Mr. Charles Locke, and there they stayed until she forced them onto more sobering matters. On the day of his rescue, she had considered him nothing more than a poor, ill man who must be treated with as much tenderness as possible. But as time went by—as they talked and laughed and passed the idle hours together—she had come to think of him differently.