Read Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) Online

Authors: Elizabeth Ludwig

Tags: #New York (N.Y.)—History—19th century—Fiction, #FIC027050, #Irish Americans—Fiction, #FIC042030, #Young women—Fiction, #FIC042040

Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (5 page)

BOOK: Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3)
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7

Pushed by a light breeze, the
Caitriona
Marie
bobbed gently on the waves in the harbor. Outside the ship, sea gulls called to one another. Their voices, normally a cacophony, were today a pleasant symphony. It might have been enough to coax Morgan to slumber, if his thoughts hadn’t left him in such a muddle.

Abandoning his bunk, he set off belowdecks in search of Cass and found him in a spirited debate with one of the other crewmen over a game of cards. At his appearance, the men around the table straightened, and all but one quieted—his brother.

“Admit it, Fisher. You’re too thick for this game, and for me.”

Fisher shoved back from the table, his sinewy arms flexing. “Why, you—”

“Cass, a minute if you don’t mind.”

One glimpse of Morgan’s face and the twinkle disappeared from Cass’s eyes. He tossed his cards to the table and rose, his chair scraping the deck. “Donovan, you’re in. Mind you don’t lose all my winnings.” He turned and wagged his finger in the face of the unhappy crewman with whom he’d been
arguing. “That’s two weeks’ worth of dishes you owe me now, Fisher.”

Fisher nodded. “All right, all right. Go on with ya now.” Picking up his cards, he looked around at the men still seated at the table. “Where were we?”

Play resumed as Morgan and Cass made their way to the galley. Though Morgan didn’t allow the men to gamble their wages, they were permitted to ante their chores, so long as the work aboard ship didn’t suffer.

Clear of the hallway’s narrow passage, Cass swung alongside Morgan and raked the hair off his forehead. “You look troubled, big brother. What ails you?”

Morgan held up the scorched remains of their morning coffee. Cass shook his head. Just as well. The brew had been sitting on hot coals since dawn and likely was as thick as tar. He poured himself a cup anyway and took a hasty swallow.

Cass frowned. “Things that bad?”

“Maybe not,” Morgan replied. “I made a decision.”

“About the girl?”

“Yes, the girl.”

“And?”

“I’m going back to speak to her today.”

“I see.” Pulling up a crate, Cass took a seat. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say to her?”

Indeed, he’d thought of little else. Wound too tight to sit, Morgan paced the length of the galley, the mug in hand. “I think you’re right, Cass. She doesn’t seem the type to accept charity. That being the case, I think my best bet will be to express an interest in the shelter she spoke of.”

Cass cocked his head.

“She’ll have a much harder time declining financial help if she thinks I’m making a donation.”

“Like an investor of some sort?”

“Aye, like that.”

“Well, before you go transforming into a philanthropist . . .” Morgan turned to look at him. A frown marred Cass’s brow, and he gave an almost apologetic shrug. “You remember those repairs we made before we left Dublin?”

“The bilge?”

“Aye. Well, there’s water coming in through the hull. Even with the repairs, ’tis more than the pump can handle. I’m thinking it’s going to need a closer look.”

Which meant more repairs, more time in port, and more overall outlay. He drained his mug, then scowled at the bitter aftertaste. “We’ll make it work somehow, even if I need to wire Dublin for a little extra cash.”

Cass narrowed his eyes. “From your own private funds, you mean.”

He shoved his sleeves to his elbows and said nothing.

“Morgan—”

“It’s all part of running a shipping business, Cass. Repairs and overhead come with the job.”

“And donations to women you barely know? Where does that figure in?”

Stifling a grunt of frustration, Morgan turned his back. “I explained all of that to you.”

“Not quite. You explained what happened, but you left out the part about how anything Doc did makes you eternally obligated.”

Morgan faced his brother again, arms crossed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m talking about a one time offer, something to help her get on her feet. And then I’m done.”

“Really? Are you certain about that? Because even after all this time she still seems to have a pretty firm hold on you.”

He leaned back on the crate, balancing on one edge. The slightest push would have sent him crashing to the deck,
which was something Morgan was wont to do when next Cass opened his mouth.

“You gonna tell me what it is about this lass that has you so jiggered, Cap?”

“Watch your mouth.”

The crate thumped to the deck. “She’s a bonnie thing, is that it? Eyes the color of a cornflower and all that?”

Just the opposite. Tillie McGrath’s eyes were brown with bits of gold shimmering in their depths—especially when they were awash with tears.

Cass rose and sauntered around the table. “And I suppose she has waves of russet hair that hints of lavender when stirred by a breeze.”

Unwilling to be provoked by his brother’s blarney, Morgan bit his tongue and watched him approach. “You got the color right, but I have no idea what her hair smells like, nor do I care to know.”

Cass snorted. “Ah, brother, ’tis the jewel that can’t be got that is the most beautiful. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

“And the man without eyes is no judge of beauty—that’s usually how you respond.”

Cass chuckled. “Fine. If it isn’t her looks, then what?”

The two stared at each other in the uneasy silence that followed, and then Cass sobered and went to stand at arm’s length from Morgan. “You’re thinking to tell her the truth about how her husband died, is that it? Is that why you’re so set on returning to the boardinghouse?”

It wasn’t often his little brother could make him uncomfortable, yet Morgan found himself fidgeting beneath his stare. By all rights he should have already told him what he’d learned about Tillie McGrath’s “husband,” and yet . . .

“I haven’t decided yet. Telling her the truth could be dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because whoever killed him, whoever ordered him killed,” he corrected, “isn’t a dullard. If the truth were to leak out, if anyone were to find out that I broke quarantine and brought her in to see him before he died, that she spoke to him and that he—”

A creak from the hallway cut his words short. He shot a glance at Cass, whose eyes had gone as wide as portholes at the sound. Morgan looked down at the floor. A shadow drifted in the crack between the bottom of the door and the deck, but the owner made no move to knock.

A murderer and now a spy? Never before had he felt so threatened aboard his own ship. Putting a finger to his lips, he rounded the table.

“Well, I still say you’re worrying about breaking your shin on a stool that isn’t in your way, big brother.”

Though he continued talking as casually as before, Cass picked up the crate and crouched into position opposite Morgan.

“After all . . .”

He nodded once, and Morgan held up one finger.

“. . . it’s not like we’d ever be able to prove . . .”

Two fingers.

“. . . who Doc was working with . . .”

Three!

Morgan flung open the door, a growl ripping from his throat. The sound, combined with the sight of Cass wielding the crate, was enough to startle the eavesdropper into ducking, his hands curled defensively over his head.

“Whoa! ’Tis me, Captain. ’Tis Donal.”

“Donal.” Cass lowered the crate. “By thunder, what are you doing out here?”

Reaching around him, Morgan grabbed Donal by the collar and dragged him into the galley, then slammed him flat
against the wall. “Eavesdropping, Donal? Why? What were you hoping to hear?”

“Eavesdropping?” A deep flush crept over Donal’s cheeks. “No, sir. You got that wrong—”

Morgan bunched both fists around Donal’s collar and lifted until his feet skimmed the deck. “Were you skulking outside this door or not?”

“Morgan—”

“Aye . . . I mean, no, sir. Not skulking.” Donal sputtered and clawed at Morgan’s fingers.

“Morgan!” Cass grabbed Morgan’s fist and squeezed until he tore his gaze from Donal to look at him. “Hear him out.”

Reluctantly, he loosened his grip. Donal’s face slowly returned to normal color, but anger burned in his eyes. “I was looking for
you
, Captain. The lads said I could find you here.”

“Looking for me, why?”

“The undertaker’s come to collect Doc’s body. Said they’d charge us to keep him iced until the family came, but that it wouldn’t be more’n a day or two.” He rubbed the scarlet marks on his neck. “I figured you’d want to know.”

Deep down he sensed that wasn’t the only reason Donal had been looking for him. He didn’t trust the man, didn’t like the way his seedy eyes darted over every part and parcel of the ship. But he was a solid crewman, and he came with good references, so unless he had reason to dismiss him . . .

Disgusted, Morgan waved him toward the door. “See to it, then. Have the charges made out in my name and bring the bill to me.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And, Donal?”

“Sir?”

“I catch you lurking about unannounced again, I’ll have you put off this ship. Understood?”

Donal squared his jaw and gave a curt nod before striding from the galley.

When he’d gone, Cass exhaled and rubbed his palm over his chin. “What do you suppose that was about?”

Morgan rolled his shoulders, releasing a bit of the tension that bunched the muscles along his neck and back. “I don’t know. Could be I’m wrong.”

“But you don’t think so.”

He eyed his brother, so much like their mother in temperament and disposition. It was fortunate Cass had been present to calm an otherwise volatile situation. Who knew what he might have done otherwise. He shook his head. “No, I don’t. One thing’s for certain, however.”

“And that is?”

“From now on, I think we’d best watch our backs.”

“Aye,” Cass said.

Morgan motioned toward the exit and the direction Donal had taken. “And be verra careful about what you say.”

8

Rage roiled up from Donal’s belly as he stepped from the dock onto the street. Oh, but he’d have liked to cut the smugness from the captain’s face as he’d threatened to toss him from the ship.

He’d not attempt it in broad daylight, though. He rubbed his fingers along his neck where his flesh still tingled. No, he’d felt the strength in the captain’s hands for himself, sensed the power there. He’d not stand a chance man to man. But under cover of darkness? Well, that would prove a different story. The thought sparked a smile.

“Will you be riding along or what?”

The man from the morgue peered down at Donal from his perch on the wagon seat. He was tall and thin, just like an undertaker should be, but he walked with a swagger and spoke with a distinct accent that scraped Donal’s already raw nerves.

He glanced at the stark wagon carrying Doc’s wrapped body. On its side were painted the words
Steven R.
Ramsey, Sexton and Undertaker
. He scowled. The last thing he wanted was to be a fellow passenger in
that
.

A bark of laughter from the undertaker cut into his thoughts. “He’s dead, you know. Not like he’s going to sit up and ask for a cup of tea.” He gathered the reins and gave a tilt of his head toward the vacant seat next to him. “Well?”

“I’m coming.”

Bracing his foot on the hub, he swung into the wagon. He grabbed hold of the side when the undertaker gave a chirp and set the vehicle in motion before he was fully seated.

“Easy!”

“Sorry.” The man lifted his chin and eyed him from beneath the brim of his tall hat. “Name’s Ramsey.”

“Donal Peevey.”

“Just got into port?”

He grunted.

Ramsey loosened his grip on the reins and settled against the seat. “Figured so. We don’t usually get asked to collect bodies from ships like that.”

“I wouldn’t have asked this time. ’Twas the captain’s idea to go looking for the lad’s family.” He turned a narrowed stare toward the undertaker. “Would have suited me to dump him in a pauper’s grave and be done.”

Clearing his throat, Ramsey focused on the road ahead. ’Twasn’t long before Donal noticed that carriages and pedestrians naturally moved aside for them. Those that didn’t, Ramsey gave a sharp whistle to. He peered down his nose at them when, startled, they gaped at the words painted on the side of the wagon.

Donal realized then what it was he didn’t like about the man. ’Twas the same arrogant stare that he’d scuttled from as a poor lad when a lord’s or lady’s coach went rumbling by.

Fortunately the wagon clattered to a halt a short time later in front of a plain brick building with ivy growing over its walls. Waiting near the walk was a low wooden gurney. Donal
jumped from the wagon and reluctantly helped Ramsey wheel the body through a black door.

“Through here.” Ramsey pointed down a wide corridor toward a room that opened off the end.

Inside was a long, narrow table. In one corner sat a row of wide lockers stacked one atop the other. Ramsey flipped the latch on one. The door, about three feet wide by three feet tall, swung open with a rusty groan. Donal pinched his nose at the odor that followed.

“In here.”

The confines weren’t much bigger than a coffin, Donal realized with a start. A very chilly coffin when packed with ice to keep a body from decay. Or . . .

His mind whirled with the possibilities as he watched Ramsey finish the task and then slam the locker door shut with a bang. He motioned toward the locker. “How long can a body keep in one of those?”

Ramsey shrugged. “Depends. Gotta keep the ice fresh and all that, but otherwise they’re pretty airtight.”

Donal knew right then what he’d do with the information he’d overheard between Captain Morgan and his brother.

He fidgeted from foot to foot while Ramsey made out the writ and signed the bottom with a flourish. Jamming the paper into his pocket, Donal spun and left the morgue, a new determination in his footsteps.

For sure and for certain, ’twould be of interest to The Celt to learn that someone besides Doc had sat with Braedon McKillop when he died. He might even care enough to pay Donal to take care of the problem for him.

Aye, and he’d name his price for the service. Cash, that’s what. Lots of it. And the
Caitriona Marie.
Then they’d see who put whom off the ship.

And the woman? She was naught but the key to wealth
for him. He could ill afford to see her as anything more. He would show pity, however. He’d make sure she was actually dead before he laid her in the locker next to Doc.

Tillie put the finishing touches on a bonnet made of more ribbons than satin and held it up for examination. Across a wide table used for cutting and measuring fabric, Mrs. Wilford Darby narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized the final flower Tillie had crafted and fastened to the brim.

“You made this?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“From a pattern?”

“No, ma’am, from memory. I saw one like it recently, in an advertisement for
Harper’s Bazaar
.”

“I didn’t realize this establishment followed
Harper’s
Bazaar
.”

“No, ma’am. Mrs. Van Rensselaer saw my interest and gave me a copy
.

Mrs. Darby’s thin brows rose, and tiny lines formed around her lips. A moment later, she beckoned to the millinery shop owner, Mrs. Ferguson. “Box this for me.”

As the woman hastened after her bidding, she turned to Tillie. “And from now on I’d prefer it if you saw to my orders personally.”

Sensing her employer’s eyes upon her, Tillie caught her lip in her teeth.

“Will that be a problem?”

Mrs. Ferguson hurried back, a large hatbox clutched to her chest. “Not at all, Mrs. Darby. Tillie will be happy to see to your requests. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Tillie swallowed and ducked her head. “Of course, ma’am.”

“Good. Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson.” Mrs. Darby motioned
to her footman, who accepted the box from Mrs. Ferguson and carried it back to her carriage. “I’ll need something in purple. My husband and I will be attending a fund-raiser later this month and I’m having a gown specially made. I’ll send James with samples of the fabric.”

Tillie nodded, already envisioning an array of possibilities. After signing for her purchases, Mrs. Darby left the store, a host of exhausted shop employees in her wake.

Mrs. Ferguson shuffled past a flustered seamstress, who fanned her face with a swatch of muslin, then pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and mopped her brow. “I can’t believe it. This has to be the first time that woman has left the store satisfied with her purchases.”

She pushed off the counter and ambled to Tillie, a wide smile creasing her plump cheeks. “I’ll never know how you managed it.”

“’Twas nothing. A wee bit of prodding is all. Mrs. Darby prides herself on being up-to-date with the latest fashions.”


And
a distant relative of the Van Rensselaers,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “A stroke of genius bringing her name into the conversation, my dear. Simply genius.”

When the laughter quieted, she motioned for the staff to resume their responsibilities, but to Tillie she extended her hand. “Come. There is something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about.”

Tillie scooped up the ribbons she’d used for Mrs. Darby’s bonnet and replaced them in a drawer fitted with a glass front, then followed Mrs. Ferguson to her office.

As she shut the door, Tillie’s thoughts flitted to the look she’d glimpsed when Mrs. Darby requested she oversee her projects. She twined her fingers tightly at her waist. “I hope I’ve not done anything wrong.”

“On the contrary, my dear.” Mrs. Ferguson crossed to a
tea cart and poured two cups. “I’ve been quite satisfied with your work for some time now.”

She grasped one of the cups and extended it toward Tillie, which she accepted gratefully. So, if she wasn’t displeased . . .

Mrs. Ferguson sat on a small rose-covered settee positioned beneath a paned window and beckoned for Tillie to join her. “Tillie, you know that when you first came to us, I wasn’t certain things would work out.”

She nodded. And no surprise, considering the sad, broken lass she’d once been.

“Since then, however, I’ve been quite impressed with your progress. You always complete your orders on time, and I’ve never once heard your customers complain. Indeed, I’ve grown to rely on you to help the others when they have a particularly troublesome request.” She set aside her cup and folded her hands primly in her lap. “Tillie, would you be interested in assuming additional responsibility?”

She waited, and Tillie motioned for her to continue.

“I’d like you to supervise all the orders, not just Mrs. Darby’s. That would mean overseeing the fittings, taking measurements, even offering suggestions as you did today. It would involve less of the actual sewing, especially when it comes to shirts or waistcoats and the like, but I think your time and talent will be better served in the long run.” She paused and leaned toward Tillie expectantly. “What do you think?”

She looked away, thinking. Added responsibility at the millinery would certainly mean spending less time at the shelter. “I think ’tis a grand offer, but . . .”

“Of course, I would increase your wages. I would never ask you to add to your responsibilities without compensating you for the effort.”

Tillie lifted her head. “Ma’am?”

Mrs. Ferguson continued with enthusiasm, “Business has been sound in recent months, my dear, and I have no doubt it is thanks in part to you. I can offer . . .” She leaned forward to whisper in Tillie’s ear.

Upon hearing the amount, Tillie’s eyes widened. The raise would mean moving the purchase of the orphanage up several months. Her only quandary was weighing the need for help at the shelter with the need for an orphanage, which she simply could not do without first speaking to Sister Agnes.

She drew a deep breath. “I’m honored that you hold my work in such high regard, Mrs. Ferguson. Might I perhaps have a day or two to ponder your offer?”

Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes shone, as if she already sensed Tillie’s answer. “Of course. No hurry.” She lifted her cup, saluted her with it, and then took a sip.

Tillie lifted her cup as well, but her thoughts were far from the tea. A thrill raced through her at the notion that she might soon see her dreams realized. After finishing her tea and withdrawing from Mrs. Ferguson’s office, she dashed through her remaining orders and then gathered her reticule and bonnet and said good-bye for the day.

Outside, the brightness of the afternoon matched the cheerfulness inside her. While it would have been unseemly for her to skip, she couldn’t help but hurry her steps in the direction of the church. Ach, but she couldn’t wait to tell Sister Agnes her plans. She only hoped she wouldn’t be leaving the nuns in a bind—

“Miss McGrath?”

Upon hearing her name called, she halted and looked up the street. Weaving through the crowd of shoppers and children, a large figure hastened toward her. It took her a moment to realize who it was. She drew back her shoulders, resisting the urge to also smooth her skirt.

“Captain Morgan?”

He removed his cap as he drew near and dipped his head. “Good afternoon.”

“This is an unexpected surprise.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said as he replaced the cap on his head. “I went by the boardinghouse this afternoon. I was hoping to speak with you. They told me I could find you here.”

“Actually I was just on my way to the church. Our Lady of Deliverance,” she clarified, “the shelter I told you about.”

“I see.” The troubled frown cleared from his face, and he swept his hand toward the sidewalk. “Do you mind if I accompany you?”

Indecision held her motionless. He was nigh a stranger, after all, no matter how kind he seemed. No, that wasn’t really fair. She’d been witness to his kindness firsthand. Her cheeks warmed as she nodded and set off again toward the church.

Though the sun still shone brightly, it wasn’t with the blazing heat of midday. Indeed, a pleasant ocean breeze stirred the hair on her neck, and twice she saw the captain turn his gaze toward the harbor, as if lured by the scent of the sea.

Not that he was inattentive company. They hadn’t walked far before she realized she rather liked having the handsome captain strolling by her side. He directed the conversation with a skill that set her at ease, asking questions about the church and shelter and volunteering stories about his Catholic upbringing that made her smile.

When they reached the corner near the land office, she slowed, of habit searching for the sign in the window and sighing with relief when she saw it hadn’t moved.

“Something wrong?” The captain’s deep voice pulled her thoughts away from the orphanage.

She shook her head. “No. Forgive me. We should be going.”

He moved past her toward the land office window. “What is this?”

Tillie’s heart pounded. The orphanage had been a secret dream for so long, she almost feared giving voice to it. “’Tis . . . uh . . .”

Reflected in the window, his eyes sought hers. “A house?”

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