Twice Loved (copy2) (7 page)

***

In the loft above the cooperage, Rye Dalton lay on his back, disquieted by the emptiness of the womanless house. At each familiar piece of furniture he had pictured his mother, sitting, working, resting, her presence felt as much now as it had been when she was there in the flesh.

His first meal at home was an improvement over ship’s fare, but fell far short of the tasty stews his mother or Laura would have prepared. His boyhood bunk, though larger than that on the 
Omega,
 was a sorry substitute for the large rosewood featherbed he’d thought to be sharing with Laura tonight. When he lay down, his body expected to ride the sway and swell it had known for five years; the steadiness of the bed beneath him kept Rye awake. Outside, instead of the whistle of wind in the rigging, he heard hooves on new cobbles, occasional voices, the crack of a whip, the closing of a street lantern’s door.

Not disturbing sounds—just different.

He rose from his bunk and padded to the window facing south. Were it day-bright, he could have seen the tip of his house, for trees here on the island were stunted things, pruned by the wind so that few grew taller than the edifices built by man.

But it was dark, the hill obliterated by a near-moonless night.

Rye imagined Laura in the bed he’d once shared with her, but lying in it now with Dan Morgan. He felt as if a harpoon had been thrust into his heart.

In his bed nearby, Josiah moved restlessly, then his voice came through the dark. “Thinking of ’er will do y’ little good tonight, lad.”

“Aye, and don’t I know it. She’s up there in bed with Dan this very minute, while I stand here making wishes.”

“Tomorrow is time enough to tell her how y’ feel.”

“I needn’t tell her—she knows.”

“So she put y’ off, did she? ”

Rye leaned his elbow against the windowframe, frustrated anew. “Aye, that she did. But the lad was there, thinking Dan is his father, lovin’ him as if he is, the way she tells it. That’ll be somethin’ t’ reckon with.”

“So she told y’ about the boy?”

“Aye.”

The incessant sound of the ocean seemed to murmur through the rough walls of the building while Rye remained as before, studying the dark square outside the window. When he spoke again it was quietly, but with inchoate pride nearly making his voice crack. “He’s a bonny lad.”

“Aye, with the look of his grandmother about his mouth.” Rye faced the spot where his father’s bed was, though he could not clearly make him out. “Y’ve lost your grandchild just as I’ve lost my wife. Did she never bring him around for the two of y’t’get acquainted? ”

“Aw, she has little business in the cooperage, and I doubt the lad lacks for grandparents’ love, with Dan’s folks playin’ the part. I’ve heard they love him like their own.”

The entanglements of the situation were ever increasing. Remembering days when he felt as free to run uninvited into the Morgans’ house as he did into his own, Rye asked, “They’re still well, then?”

“Aye, sound as dollars, both of ’em.”

Silence followed again for a moment before Rye asked, “And Dan ... what does he do t’ keep her in such fancy furniture up there?”

“Works at the countinghouse for old man Starbuck.”

“Starbuck!” Rye exclaimed. “You mean Joseph Starbuck?”

“One and the same.”

The fact stung Rye, for Starbuck owned the fleet of whaleships that included the 
Omega.
 How ironic to think he himself had gone in search of riches only to lose Laura to one who stayed behind to count them.

“You see those three new houses up along Main Street?” Josiah continued. “Starbuck’s buildin’ them for his sons. Hired an architect clear from Europe to design ’em. The Three Bricks, he’s callin’ ’em. Starbuck’s had good times. The 
Hero 
and the 
President
 came home chocked off, too, and he expects the same of the 
Three Brothers.”

But Rye was barely listening. He was ruing the day he’d set out after riches—and riches he’d have, for his lay at one-sixtieth a share, would be close to a thousand dollars, no small amount of money by any man’s standards. But the money could not buy Laura back. It was obvious she had a good life with Dan; he provided well for both her and the boy. Rye swallowed, peering through the dark to where the tip of his house must be, remembering his and Laura’s bed in the new private linter room.

Damn! He takes her in my very own bed while I sleep in my boyhood bunk and eat bachelor’s rations.

But not for long, Rye Dalton vowed. Not for long!

Chapter 3

THE FOLLOWING DAY, FOG 
had again settled over Nantucket. Its dank tendrils sniffed at Rye Dalton’s boot tops like a keen-nosed hound, then silently retreated to let him pass untouched. As he strode toward Joseph Starbuck’s countinghouse, the thick mist shifted and curled about his head while beneath his boots it turned the dull gray cobbles jet black and left them sheeny with moisture. On the iron bowl of the horse-watering fountain beads gathered, then ran in rivulets before dropping with irregular 
blips,
 each magnified into a queer resounding musical note by the enshrouding fog. Almost as an afterbeat came the click of Ship’s toenails as she followed her master.

But in spite of the damp, gray day, Rye Dalton reveled in the unaccustomed luxury of being dry and clean after five years of being splattered by ceaseless waves and wearing oily, salt-caked “slops.”

He was dressed in a bulky sweater Laura had knit for him years ago, its thick turtleneck hugging high against his jaw, nearly touching the side-whiskers that swept down to meet it. Those whiskers closely matched the color and texture of the tweedy wool, while down his sleeves twisted a cable knit that seemed to delineate the powerful curvature of the corded muscles it followed. His black wool bell-bottom trousers were waistless, rigged out with twin lacings just inside each hip, creating a stomach flap inside which his hands were pressed for warmth as he crossed the cobbles with long, masculine strides that parted the fog and sent it roiling behind him.

The salmon-colored bricks of the countinghouse appeared specterlike, a hazy backdrop for the dazzling white paint of its door, window casings, and signpost that stood out even under the leaden skies. When Rye’s hand touched the latch, Ship dropped to her haunches, taking up her post with tongue lolling and eyes riveted on the door.

Inside, the fires had been lit to ward off the spring chill, and the place swarmed with activity, as it always did after a whaleship came in. Rye exchanged greetings with countless acquaintances while he was directed to the office of Joseph Starbuck, a jovial mutton-chopped man who hurried forward with hand extended the moment Rye appeared at his doorway.

Starbuck’s grip was as firm as that of the cooper. “Dalton!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done me proud this voyage. Chocked off and bringing a dollar fifteen a gallon! I couldn’t be happier!”

“Aye, greasy luck for sure,” Rye replied, in the idiom of the day.

Starbuck quirked an eyebrow. “And are they makin’ a landlubber of y’ or will y’ sail on the next voyage with the 
Omega?”

Rye raised his palms. “Nay, no more whaling for this fool. One voyage was enough for me. I’ll be content t’ make barrels with the old man for the rest of m’ life, but right here on shore.”

“Can’t say I blame y’, Dalton, though your lay is a healthy one. Are y’ sure I can’t tempt y’ to try ’er one more time—say for a one-fifteenth share?” Starbuck kept a shrewd eye on Rye’s face while he moved again to the enormous roll-top desk that dominated the room.

“Nay, not even for a one-fifteenth. This voyage has cost me enough.”

A frown settled over Starbuck’s features, and he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets as he studied the younger man. “Aye, and I’m sorry for that, Dalton. Hell of a mix-up for a man to come home to—hell of a mix-up.” He scowled at the floor thoughtfully before looking up. “And be assured both Mrs. Starbuck and I extend our deepest sympathies at the loss of your mother, too.”

“Thank y’, sir.”

“And how is your father?”

“Spry as ever, and cutting barrel staves over there faster than that punk apprentice of his can keep up with.”

Starbuck laughed robustly. “Since I cannot convince you to cooper my ship on the ocean, perhaps I can convince you and your father to put up my order for barrels this time around.” “Aye, we’d be happy t’ do that.”

“Good! I’ll be sending my agent over to agree on a price with you before the day is out.”

“Good enough.”

“I expect you’ve come to collect your lay.”

“Aye, that I have.”

“You’ll have to see your ... ah, friend ... Morgan.” Starbuck looked slightly uncomfortable. “He’s my chief accountant now, you know. His office is on the second floor.”

“Aye, so I’ve heard.”

Starbuck studied Dalton’s face at the mention of Dan Morgan, but his expression remained unchanged, only a polite nod of the head acknowledging Starbuck’s statement. Starbuck extracted a ten-cent cigar from a humidor, offered one to Rye, who refused, snipped the end, and soon blew fragrant smoke into the room.

“You know, Dalton, there are aspects of this business which I cannot say I relish. A man leaves his home with the best of intentions, tryin’ to be a proper provider for his wife and family, but his rewards are often grim in the final outcome. Now it’s not his fault, though neither is it mine. Yet I feel responsible, damnit!” Starbuck thumped a fist on the elbow-worn arm of his captain’s chair. “Though it’s small consolation, Mrs. Starbuck and I wish to show our appreciation by inviting the officers under my employ to a dinner party at our house Saturday night, to celebrate the return of the 
Omega.
 You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Aye, and happily.” Rye grinned. “Especially if Mrs. Starbuck plans t’ serve anything my old man hasn’t cooked.”

Though Dalton smiled and bantered, Starbuck realized what a hell of a shock the man had suffered, landing to the news that his wife had been usurped by his best friend. It was damn sure Dalton missed more than just his wife’s cooking. There was little Starbuck could do about the situation, but being a fair man, the thought rankled, and he promised himself to see that Dalton received a generous contract on barrels.

***

Upstairs, Rye approached the broad pigeonholed desk before which Dan Morgan sat on a high stool. A candle in the hurricane lamp with a bowl-shaped reflector shed light onto the open books spread out on the desk, for though Nantucket lived by whale oil, ironically, it rarely lit itself by it. As the saying went, “Why burn it up when you can sell it and get rich?”

Morgan glanced up as Rye’s footsteps echoed on the oiled pine floor. His quill pen paused, and the corners of his mouth drooped. But he eased from the stool to greet Rye on his feet.

Rye stopped beside the desk, his feet planted wide in a new way to which Dan was not yet accustomed, his thumbs caught up on his stomach flap. It seemed suddenly intimidating, this seaman’s stance, so solid, so self-confident. And he was reminded that Rye was half a head taller.

Rye, too, assessed Dan. After five years he was still trim and fit. He was dressed in a stylish coat of twilled mulberry worsted, his neckpiece impeccably tied, and a striped waistcoat hugged his lean ribs. He was dressed like a man who enjoyed financial security and wanted to display it in even so reserved a fashion.

Momentarily, Rye wondered if Laura was equally as proud of Dan’s natty mode of dress.

He extended his hand, thrusting jealousy aside, and for a moment he thought Dan would refuse to greet him civilly. But at last Dan’s hand clasped Rye’s briefly. Their touch could not help but bring back memories of their years of friendship. There was, within each, an ache to restore that friendship to its original vigor as well as the realization that it would never again be recaptured.

“Hello, Dan,” the taller man greeted.

“Rye.”

They dropped hands. Clerks and subordinates moved around them, carrying on business within full view and earshot. Curious eyes turned their way, making their exchange cautious.

“Starbuck sent me up t’ collect my lay.”

“Of course. I’ll make out the bank draft for you. It’ll only take a minute.” Rye even talked in a new clipped seaman’s vernacular, Dan noted.

Dan again sat down on his stool, pulled out a long ledger, and began making an entry. Standing above him, watching his hands, Rye remembered the hundreds of times they’d threaded bait for each other, gone gigging for turtles in Hummock Pond, or digging clams at low tide, sharing their catch over an open fire on the beach, often with Laura sitting between them. Rye stared at Dan’s well-shaped hands as he penned the figures in the ledger, then wrote in an elegant, swirling English roundhand—square, competent hands with a faint spray of light hair on their backs—and he realized those hands had known as much of Laura as his own. The conflict between old loyalty and new rivalry created a maelstrom of emotion within Rye.

My friend, my friend, he thought, must you now be my enemy?

“Y’ve provided well for Laura, I can tell,” he said, speaking quietly so nobody else could hear. “I thank y’ for that much.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” Dan replied without looking up. “She’s my wife.” Here he did look up, a challenge in his eyes. “What would you expect?”

They confronted each other silently for a moment, knowing well that each would suffer in the days ahead.

“I expect a hell of a good fight for her, from the looks of it.”

“I expect no such thing.” Dan stood up and extended the check, scissored between two fingers. “The law is on my side. You were reported lost at sea. In such cases there is what is legally referred to as an assumption of death, so in the eyes of the law, Laura is 
my
 wife, not yours.”

“Y’ haven’t wasted any time checkin’ on legalities, have y'?”

“Not a day.”

So a fight it will be, Rye thought, disappointed at this new disclosure. Yet if Dan had gone to all that trouble, it meant Laura had cast some doubt into his mind about her intentions.