4

It could not be. Ten years was a long time, and memories often faded. Still, Catherine would never forget the stranger’s eyes. Black as night with a gold fleck in the center, as if a cat stared into a bright light. At the time she’d called them “tiger’s eyes” before learning that a tiger’s eyes were nothing like that. Then there was the odd scar beneath his eye.

This man had passed too quickly for her to spot either distinguishing feature. Yet his stature and coloring made her pulse race. Could it be?

“I must follow him.” She let go of Tom Worthington’s arm and began weaving through the crowd.

The throngs that had seemed thick before now turned into a solid mass. Her parasol had become a detriment, so she folded it. Even so, at every step she was pushed in a different direction until she wasn’t sure where she was headed.

“Here.” Mr. Worthington grabbed her elbow. “Follow me.”

Within a moment he had pulled her out of the masses and into a shaded alcove beneath an overhanging porch roof. Only then did she realize how hot the sun was. Perspiration trickled down her temples and the nape of her neck. Her heart raced, and her head seemed to swim as if she was still aboard ship. She grabbed onto a pillar, but the sensation did not abate.

“Here.” Mr. Worthington eased her to a small bench. “Do you have a fan?”

“In my bag.” She fumbled to open the clasp.

“Perhaps the gloves are the problem.”

“Of course they are,” she snapped, “but no lady appears in public without them.”

“Perhaps in England, but customs are different here. No one will condemn you for removing them.” He knelt before her. “Or I might open the bag for you.”

She groaned with frustration. The last thing she needed was for Tom Worthington to see what she carried in her bag. Off came the gloves. Sure enough, the clasp was now easy to open. She withdrew the fan and snapped the bag shut again.

He held out a hand. “Allow me.”

She blinked. “To what?”

“Create a bit of breeze with that fan of yours.”

She sat up straight. “I am perfectly capable of fanning myself.”

He grinned and stood. “Of course you are.”

She preferred him at eye level, but her legs were too wobbly to stand just yet. So she stared at the street with its glistening sand and gravel. Tom had guided her away from the crowded wharf and across the street to . . . She glanced at the sign above the door. STEPHEN RUSSELL, ESQ.

“An attorney’s office?”

He laughed. “The closest place to sit. You still have your sea legs.”

“Excuse me?”

“From being aboard ship so long. The ground will feel like it’s swaying.”

“How did you know?” She chided herself. “Forgive me. You’re a sailor.”

Instead of taking offense, he laughed again. “Don’t worry. It’ll go away in a day or so.”

“A day! How will I ever catch up to . . . Never mind.” The man, whoever he was, was gone.

He crouched again so he was at eye level. “Who was that man?”

She stared at Mr. Worthington, who seemed able to read her mind. “I’m not sure—but I think it may be DeMornay.”

“Mornez?”

“No, DeMornay. A French name, I believe.” Was it disappointment that flitted across his face? “Have you heard the name before?”

He shook his head. “Where did you come across it?”

She fanned her face. “When I was thirteen, a dark stranger piqued my imagination. That man on the wharf reminded me of him. I saw the name in the estate’s record book from ten years ago, about the same time the stranger appeared at Deerford.” She forced a laugh. “I’m afraid I romanticized him into all manner of man, from avenging knight to daring privateer.”

He smiled. “You were well-read.”

“Deerford had an extensive library.”

“Deerford?”

“The family lands in Staffordshire. Rather, what used to be our lands.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “My cousin sold them.”

He paused long enough for that to sink in. “Then your family has other land here?”

She understood his confusion. “My mother was American, from Louisiana.”

“So you are rejoining family. I assume then that Mrs. Durning is not your mother.”

A laugh burst out. “You do realize how preposterous that is. Aside from the complete lack of resemblance, we do not share a name.”

“She might have remarried.” But he was grinning, as if relieved that she was not related to Mrs. Durning.

“No. Maman died when I was twelve.” She could not keep down the sigh. “And Papa last September.”

“Thus the mourning attire.”

She looked down at her impractical gown. “Thus the dark colors. I had hoped it would deter Mr. Lightwater.”

“I suspect nothing that simple will keep him at bay.” Mr. Worthington scanned the thinning crowds. “He may find us if we do not move on. Take my arm, and I will lead you to the closest shipping agent.”

Seeing as the dark stranger was likely little more than a play of her imagination and Mr. Lightwater might this very moment be closing in on her, Catherine let Tom Worthington guide her two doors down to a cramped office with grimy windows.

She hesitated to enter.

“I can go in with you,” he suggested.

Catherine breathed out in relief. She hadn’t yet acquired steady legs, but she had found a friend. Perhaps she could also find quick passage to New Orleans.

Something about the way Miss Haynes uttered the name DeMornay had sent shivers down Tom’s spine. At first he told himself it couldn’t be the man he sought. Mornez was a stretch from DeMornay. Then she mentioned that she’d seen him ten years ago in England.

Ten years had passed since Mornez had hired Pa to sail him to New Orleans. Moreover, Pa insisted the man had come to Boston from England. The similarities were too great not to consider that DeMornay and Mornez might be the same man. Tom wanted more, but she offered nothing else.

He turned his attention to assisting her to the nearest shipping office. He didn’t think much of Baldwin Fromp as a shipping agent. The man’s rumpled coat looked like he’d slept in it for weeks. Tea and tobacco stains dotted his shirt. Dust coated every surface of the office except Fromp’s chair, which is where the man was when they entered the tiny office.

Miss Haynes held the fan to her nose.

He hoped it was scented, because the office reeked of snuff, sweat, and odors he couldn’t quite identify.

“Good day.” Fromp tugged his coat straight over his portly midsection and with a groan rose to his feet. “Anything I can do for you?”

She straightened her back. “Passage to New Orleans.”

Fromp blinked in surprise that she had answered.

Tom should have told her to let him speak.

Doubtless sensing money to be gained, Fromp rubbed his hands together. “Now let me see. New Orleans. Packet or steamship?”

“Give me the price for each.”

Fromp took a longer look at her. No doubt he’d taken in the quality of her clothing and the distinctly English accent. Not to mention the elegant parasol.

Tom cleared his throat to remind Fromp that he was here on the lady’s behalf. “And the schedule. Last I heard no one’s sailing.”

“True, true,” Fromp muttered, “but they’ll be heading out soon. Got a steamer due in any day now from New York.”

“They’ll be slowed,” Tom interjected.

Fromp glared at him before refocusing on Miss Haynes. “As I said, the Lady Jane is due in soon.” He rustled some papers until he found what he wanted. “Ah yes, as I thought. Headed for Mobile and then New Orleans.”

“Are there any ships going directly to New Orleans?” she asked.

Tom eyed her. She was in a hurry indeed. Why, if she was only joining family? No, there must be more involved. Tom hoped the same cousin who had sold their lands in England had not sent her to marry.

Fromp shuffled through more papers. “Uh, not that I know of, but there’s always the odd ship that comes in without notice.” He frowned. “Most are heading the other direction, though. Stopping here after New Orleans. You might have to wait.”

That clearly did not please her. “I will ask another agent.”

“You won’t get a different answer,” Fromp said.

“Then how much is passage on the Lady Jane?”

Fromp named a figure that made her blanch.

“For third class?” Tom gave Fromp a look that said he’d better not pad the fee.

“That’d be half the price, but a lady like you wouldn’t want to travel with that riffraff, not without a strong escort.” Fromp glared back at Tom.

Miss Haynes wavered. Apparently she’d planned to travel unescorted, a thought that made Tom nervous. Too much could happen to a beautiful woman traveling alone without protection.

“All ships can’t cost that much,” she whispered.

Fromp shrugged. “Can’t say. Each company sets its own rates.”

Something like desperation set her expression. “I will keep asking then.”

Without waiting for him, she pulled open the door and darted from the office. Tom followed and closed the door behind them, an idea forming in his head. If she could wait and he could explain the problem to Rourke, maybe he would have just the solution. But it would cost. Perhaps a great deal.

The other shipping agents gave the same answers as the first. Perhaps in this small port they banded together to set fees and regulate transport, such as it was, for Catherine could not find any passage beyond the Lady Jane. That vessel planned a two-week stay in Mobile to off-load cargo. Catherine might as well wait here for the Justinian to be repaired.

Frustrated, she hurried back toward that vessel, Tom Worthington on her heels. She had hoped he would help her, but he hadn’t convinced a single agent to lower his fees or bring a vessel here sooner. It was unfair to think he could change either, but her dwindling funds put her in a precarious position. She couldn’t afford a long delay.

“Where are you going?” His easy tone matched his loping gait.

She, on the other hand, could barely speak between gulps of air. “To the ship.”

“But you can’t stay aboard.”

She halted. “Why not? I have paid for passage all the way to Jamaica. Apparently that is the only way I will reach my destination.”

“They still won’t let you stay aboard during repairs. That’s why I asked if you were staying at the Admiralty Inn. See?” He nodded toward the wharf.

Captain and Mrs. Durning stood there beside a pile of trunks. Three of them were Catherine’s, along with the crated portrait of Maman. Mrs. Durning waved at her. The captain acknowledged Catherine and then headed for the stevedores.

The woman clapped her plump hands when Catherine arrived. “I wondered where you went. We have been put off, dear. Quite shocking, but there it is. Nothing to be done but to buck up and make the best of matters. Mr. Durning will stay with the ship, naturally, but no passengers are allowed on board.”

“Why?” Catherine asked, when what she really needed to know was where they would stay. Tom Worthington had mentioned an inn, but that would cost precious money.

“Mr. Durning says it’s too dangerous, and we wouldn’t sleep a wink with all the pounding going on.”

Catherine briefly wondered if the captain simply wanted to avoid his wife’s oversight during the repairs, but she shook the thought away. Even now workmen crawled over the Justinian.

“Then repairs will be completed quickly.” And she would reach New Orleans after only a small delay.

Mrs. Durning fanned her plump face, which was dotted with perspiration. “I do hope so. This infernal clime is more than a lady can bear.”

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable at the Admiralty Inn.” Mr. Worthington bowed before them. “I would be glad to hire a porter and escort you there.”

“Walk?” Mrs. Durning’s fan paused.

He smiled. “It’s a very short walk, but I can arrange for a hack if you wish.”

Something about Mr. Worthington softened the older lady. Catherine had noticed it that morning.

With the sun now dropping quickly toward the horizon, they had best find lodgings as soon as possible. Given the numbers that had crowded the wharf earlier, there might not be many rooms left at what was likely the best inn on the island.

Catherine’s fears proved well-founded. After delays to arrange for a porter and waiting for a hack, they found the inn full.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the innkeeper managed to state without looking the least bit sorry. “All we got left is the admiral’s quarters at two dollars for the night.”

“Two dollars!” Catherine and Mrs. Durning exclaimed at the same time.

“Will you accept British sterling?” Catherine added.

“Silver? Aye,” the innkeeper grunted. “But I gotta warn ye that the room’s got just one bed.”

“Poor quarters for an admiral,” Catherine remarked.

“Take it or not.” The man shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

Catherine managed a weak smile as she turned toward Mrs. Durning. “Would you be willing to share the bed?” She hated to imagine what manner of rodent might crawl about such a place after the lamps were extinguished.

“Of course, dear, but that is not the problem.”

Tom Worthington sidled near the innkeeper and said something to him in too soft a voice for Catherine to hear. She guessed he was trying to get a lower price, but the innkeeper staunchly shook his head.

Even half that rate would deplete her savings in no time, and she would have to pay for the privilege of listening to Mrs. Durning’s snores.

A pleasing aroma drifted from the vicinity of the dining room, and Catherine’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten much more than stale biscuit and a few spoonfuls of clear broth all day. This smelled like a fish stew she’d once enjoyed on the coast.

“What will we do?” Mrs. Durning blinked back tears. “Mr. Durning only gave me a few shillings. By the time I return for more, the room will be gone.”

Catherine swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. “I will pay the cost for tonight. In the morning we will seek a better situation.”

Mr. Worthington returned. “I suggest private lodging.”

Mrs. Durning gasped. “In a stranger’s home?” She looked out the open door to the neighboring houses. “There couldn’t possibly be room for two additional ladies in any of these.”

Catherine had difficulty imagining it too. The houses were not large, certainly not the size of Deerford with its two sitting rooms, two parlors, study, library, dining room, and six bedchambers. These were more like tenant cottages. Even the ones with a second story could have at most three bedchambers, and those would likely be filled with children.

“I know just the place,” Mr. Worthington said. “Mrs. Elizabeth O’Malley is known for her gracious hospitality. You would be most welcome.”

Catherine eyed the darkening doorway. She could not impose on a stranger so late in the day. “Perhaps tomorrow. For tonight we will take this room.” She turned to the innkeeper, determined to succeed where Mr. Worthington had failed. “However, since we must share a single bed, I expect a lower rate.”

The innkeeper blinked, apparently unused to a woman speaking her mind.

“I assume the rate includes meals,” she added.

He paused for a few moments before recognition dawned on his face. “You’re asking if meals is included. Didn’t understand, what with that accent and all.”

Indeed. He was the one with the atrocious accent. Instead of pointing that out, she smiled.

He didn’t. “Meals is extra.”

Catherine gritted her teeth and forced that smile a bit longer. “We would be greatly beholden to you, sir, if you might include supper and breakfast.” They could survive without the midday meal if necessary.

His gaze narrowed. “Now then, seems to me that you’re the one needin’ a room and I’m the only inn that’s got one. Law of supply and demand.”

Meaning he could charge a pirate’s ransom. “Our Lord gave us another law. To love your neighbor as yourself. Surely you can find it in your heart to help two women unexpectedly stranded on this fair isle. I eat no more than a bird.”

“A pelican?” the innkeeper snorted, his gaze darting to Mrs. Durning.

“A wren.”

Mr. Worthington outright laughed. “Come now, Sullivan, both you and I know you’re overcharging. Give it to the ladies for a dollar—with meals.”

“One dollar without meals,” Sullivan countered.

“I accept.” It wasn’t ideal, but she would make do. She had some food left in her trunk, and Mrs. Durning could get meals from the cook on the Justinian.

Mr. Worthington chuckled after she’d registered and paid the fee. “You have a way with people.”

Catherine wasn’t certain if that was a compliment or not, considering she’d failed to persuade a single shipping agent to budge on his rates and couldn’t winkle a single meal from the innkeeper.

He drew them away from the registration desk. “I still think you should consider meeting Elizabeth O’Malley tomorrow. I would be glad to make introductions, and she would welcome company with her husband gone. You will find her two children well-mannered for their age.”

“How young?” Mrs. Durning asked.

“Around five and three years of age.”

The matron brightened. “Perfectly delightful ages. I would appreciate the society. Perhaps we should call on her.”

Mr. Worthington directed the porter to carry their trunks to their room. “You will adore her. Everyone does.” His eyes twinkled as they settled on Catherine. “She’s my captain’s wife.”

A wrecker’s wife. Catherine held out little hope for the type of society that Mrs. Durning anticipated.