ABBEY CLUNG TO the tree in the darkness, mostly to keep from falling over, all the while experiencing a hatred deeper and blacker than the blackest pit on earth. Pollock. Thomas Pollock. What was he doing here?
A cold hand wiped away the hot-blooded need that had been simmering expectantly inside her. A shudder of protectiveness replaced it, and wracked her. Pollock was heading straight for Jake. A moment more . . . and they were talking.
No greeting had been exchanged. She was sure of that. There was no sign of friendliness, but no sign of rejection, either. Jake accepted the man’s presence with only a slight tightening of his posture.
She heard snatches of conversation, but only pieces.
“—watching you—”
“Before it’s too late—”
“—part of the bargain—”
“—by morning—”
“All right.”
“—in Baltimore?”
“—dependable transportation—”
“—don’t like the sound of it—”
“—Proof? Your proof’s in the—”
“—try it—”
“But don’t . . . my way—”
In between the cogent words, the rest was muttering. Abbey dug her fingernails into the tree’s bark, her teeth pressing together in frustration until her jaws ached. If only she were closer. If only the breeze would change direction. Pollock! Astonishing! He couldn’t be here!
Her mind screamed its anguish and rage. Murderer!
Deeper into the bark her fingernails dug. Her heart was begging her to step out and shout the accusation. But then she’d get no further here than she had back home—and she’d never find out why he was there and why he was talking to Jake. To Jake, damn it all!
Jake . . . Pollock. Mystery . . . murder. Oh, God . . .
Did Jake know who that man was. If he didn’t, he was in awesome danger. If he did . . . then she was a fool.
“—have to be now?”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“—not arguing.”
Abbey stiffened, holding her breath, straining to hear. Peering between the trees, she watched as Pollock strode away from Jake. Jake didn’t follow—at least, not immediately. Instead he passed his eyes over the street, sweeping from one end to the other, pausing in the direction Abbey would be taking to meet him. Her legs tingled when she thought—for an instant—that he saw her.
Then Pollock, now halfway down the street, turned and barked, “Right now.”
Jake closed his jacket and buttoned it—somehow Abbey knew that was a gesture of fortification. He glanced one more time toward Ash Street. Then he made a decision and jogged down Candle Street after Pollock.
May hell bum you Thomas Pollock. It was her Jake was waiting for, Abbey raged in the privacy of her mind. How many times did the man think he could interfere in her life . . . before she struck back?
Pollock had given Jake orders, firmly and with the same pompous authority in his voice that Abbey remembered him using in Wyoming. Wyoming. That far! Yes, Pollock had disappeared, cleanly and utterly, but to show up here?
“Is he following me?” Abbey whispered aloud, battling to sort out the possibilities. Almost instantly she knew that made no sense. The ranch was dissolved, sold to pay its debts. She had just about had it with being followed.
It was her turn to do the following.
She stepped out from behind her stand of trees and took her shoes off, tucking them under one arm. Ignoring the punishment of hard, misshapen cobblestones on her stocking feet, she started down Candle Street.
Where Candle Street merged into Washington, she lost them. Not until she was to Fayette Street did she realize they must have turned off down Coffin Street while she was busy sneaking up behind them. Desperate to catch up to them, she turned up Fayette, gathered up her skirts, and tilted into a run toward Union Street, hoping they turned left and she would encounter them here.
Bad luck . . . they were nowhere to be seen. Only moonlight occupied the silent street. Either she was too late and they had already passed, or they hadn’t come this way at all. Such a small, tight town . . . two skulking men could disappear without really meaning to.
Pollock . . . Pollock . . . Pollock, of all the humans on earth!
Coincidence? No. Fate! Providence!
Yes, fate. It had brought her there to give him what he deserved.
“But first,” she rasped, “answers.”
And she knew where those answers lay.
Though she knew exactly where she was heading, she took the long way through town. She went up and down the short streets with their blocky Quaker houses and their tight, neat gardens and their lamplit window curtains, but she had plainly lost the two men she was following. Twice she pulled herself to a stop as dark forms strode out of the night, but neither time was it Jake and Pollock. Once it was a man and a woman, and the second time it was three men hobbling down the street toward the docks, profoundly drunk, still howling the sea song she’d heard threading into the night air from The Brotherhood.
Finally there was nothing to do but admit the obvious and dash for the one place where she could unshackle herself from this cloying question.
Abbey stormed into the Nash house, rattling the door nearly off its frame. Even without her shoes, she made a terrible noise on the foyer floor. She flew into the parlor and tossed off her shawl—
And found herself staring at a roomful of men, shrouded in cigar smoke. All were standing, none in a relaxed manner. Something was happening—happening now.
At the center of them, Dominic glared at her, openmouthed and seemingly profoundly embarrassed.
Then one of the men, an older fellow with a bright yellow beard, gestured toward Abbey and said, “Retired, had she?”
Dominic’s cheeks grew pink. He stepped past the bearded man.
“Mrs. Sutton, I thought you had gone to bed,” he exclaimed.
Abbey glanced self-consciously around the smoky room at the pack of men. “What is all this?”
“Where’ve you been just now, miss?” another man demanded.
With a slicing motion, Dominic cut the man off.
“Mrs. Sutton,” he began, “I must ask where you’ve been for the last hour.”
Abbey pressed her lips together, not exactly in defiance, but she didn’t really have a very savory story to tell. That she’d been dashing about in her stocking feet with her skirts all hiked up, chasing two men, one of whom she hated and the other she desired?
Unable to force herself to say that, she fell back on indignation. “Who’s business is it?” she demanded.
Uncomfortable but determined to do his duty, Dominic peered at her. “It is the official business of the island, I’m afraid.” He paused then, making Abbey supremely aware of the hard glares of all these men, almost a dozen of them. “The town jail has been broken into.”
Abbey blinked, her brows lowering. “The jail? What’s that to do with me?”
“Runaway slaves were being held in it. The very slaves you defended on the wharf the morning you arrived. All these men saw what happened that day. Suspicion, naturally—”
“Naturally falls on me,” she supplied fiercely. Folding her arms, she admitted, “That makes sense. I overpowered the guard and ripped the door off the jail. You can look at me and easily imagine the sight.”
The men in the small parlor muttered at each other. Her narrow, feminine body made the point for her as she stood with her hands on her hips before them.
“I didn’t do it,” she said flatly, without blinking. “Though I wish I had.”
The men shuffled uneasily, caught up by her honesty.
She didn’t give them time to think. Instead she glared straight at Nash. “Dominic, I must talk to you.”
Dominic clenched his fists in contemplation, then swung around and addressed the men. “All right, I’ll handle this. You men organize a search of the harbor front.
Muttering among themselves, the men filed out of the parlor and out the front door, one or two of them giving order to the others about who was to search where and how thoroughly.
They were barely out the door before Dominic asked, “What is it? You seem agitated.”
“That I am. I want to know what’s going on.”
“With the jail?”
“With Jacob Ross.”
Dominic tensed. “We discussed that subject, Abbey.”
“We skimmed that subject, Dominic,” she corrected.
Dominic gazed at her perplexedly, but he seemed to get the idea that there was no escape. If she didn’t get her answers here, she would go out and get them somewhere else, very probably somewhere much more dangerous.
“Did you think you could deflate my curiosity with an order?” she demanded.
He tilted his head. “I thought I could. Evidently I was mistaken.”
“I want to know what’s going on.” She gestured toward the big front door, indicating the men who had just passed through it. “Obviously there’s more to Nantucket than meets the eye. I assumed Jacob was suspected of petty smuggling. Liquor, perhaps, to avoid tariffs, and that sort of thing. Small things. A few dollars here and there. But I saw something tonight that makes me believe otherwise. I want to know specifically what kind of smuggling he’s being suspected of.
Dominic cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “It isn’t very honorable.”
“I don’t care what adjective it carries. I’m interested in the man, and I want to know.”
“All right, but please calm yourself.” He maneuvered himself into the center of the room as though that might insulate them from each other. When he spoke, it was slowly and with contemplation. “You realize that, as a government official, there’s a limit to what I can tell you.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Abbey bit back.
His jaw stiffened. “I want you to stay away from Jacob Ross because . . . Ross is a special danger. He’s not just smuggling a few spirits in under the docks to avoid tariffs. We suspect that he’s aiding in the transportation of valuable stolen property from the Continent. There’s piracy involved. There’ve been deaths. We think he’s part of a ring that uses Nantucket as a funnel. They’re thieves, Abbey, pure and simple. Organized and dangerous.”
A terrible chord chimed inside Abbey. Thieves. Rustlers. The kind of people who stole the fruits of other people’s labor. It turned her stomach. She’d spent her life working cattle and sheep ranches only to watch in near-helplessness while rustlers cut away portions of whole herds. Abhorrent. Smuggling the stolen property of others!
Her perception of Jake shriveled. And of herself—she wasn’t usually that bad a judge of character. But perhaps this was why he never quite seemed like the kind of man who keeps a lighthouse. Boiling with conflict within, Abbey shut her mouth tightly on her own anger, anger at Jake for even the tiniest possibility that he could be one of these men Dominic had described to her. She wanted to defend him, counter Dominic by describing the Jake she knew, the Jake she felt. Yet there was that nagging doubt—and the roaring testimonial that Jake himself had been trying to keep her away from him all along, as though—as though he were too dangerous to touch. Dangerous . . .
Abbey clenched her hands into a lump. She stared at the rug, knowing Dominic was watching her.
“They are the kind of men,” Dominic went on for effect, “who killed your husband. My friend.”
This snapped Abbey out of her thoughts. She felt a blade of cold hatred jab from her eyes. “More than like them. It was them.”
Dominic’s gaze narrowed as he interpreted her. “What was it you saw tonight?”
“Not an it,” she snapped back. “A him. Someone who shouldn’t be here. Someone whom deceit follows wherever he goes. Someone who makes me not surprised that there’s untoward activity in the town tonight.”
Now Dominic’s hands flared out at his side to punctuate his question. “Who?”
Abbey’s throat burned as she spoke the name. “Thomas Pollock,” she said. “The man who killed my husband.”
“Here?” Dominic’s voice lifted beyond its normal firm baritone. “On Nantucket?”
Abbey’s arm shot out, and her finger extended accusatorily out the appropriate window. “Not five blocks from here!”
Dominic looked at the floor, frowning, and he paced thoughtfully. “That’s . . . very strange.”
Abbey’s eyes narrowed, and she slammed her fist against her thighs. “I suppose one might suggest a strangeness about it!” she fumed impatiently.
“What was he doing?” Dominic asked her.
“He was talking to Jake!” she blurted, anger making her speak right out.
“Was he, now?” Dominic drawled, his red brows lifting.
Abbey looked at him, holding herself in place as she realized she had just betrayed Jake, giving Dominic good reason to widen his suspicions that Jake was involved in illegal dealings. She shouldn’t have done that—she wasn’t that sure of what she’d seen tonight. Damn Pollock and the confusion he set upon her!
A criminal was setting her alight. A criminal. She didn’t even know Jake well enough to know that about him, yet she quivered for his touch and the taste of his skin. The hunger was bitter, but it wouldn’t go away.
“I go out for an evening sojourn, end up seeing my husband’s murderer, and come home to discover I’m accused of conspiracy. I’ve had more ideal evenings, Dominic.”
He nodded. “However, you must admit the logic of the accusation. You did attempt to pulverize the slaver.”
“And would again.”
“Yes, I know that, and I wish you’d cease saying it in public, Abbey,” he sputtered in frustration. “It does not help.”
“Well, what would help? Dishonesty?” she wailed.
“Of course not . . . restraint. Ross is using you.”
Abbey blew a huff of anger out her nose and said, “I assure you, he hasn’t.”
Dominic’s ruddy face flushed berry red. “Please, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. He hasn’t used me in any sense. Not yet, and nothing I haven’t suggested myself. In fact, he’s been beating the brush down trying to avoid me. Tell the truth, I can’t believe we’re speaking about the same man.”
“You intend to see him again, even after this?”
“I’ll wring the truth out of him somehow,” she said. “Something is gravely amiss. It’s not in his nature to take the possessions earned by others.”
“Abbey,” Dominic began in a subduing tone, “you hardly know him well enough to make that kind of judgment. We’ve been watching the man for some time. And now this breakout at the jail—activity on Nantucket seems to be coming to a head. I don’t want you caught in this maelstrom when you hardly even know your way around the island yet, much less around its folk.”
“You think Jake has something to do with the breakout?” she asked him directly.
“That wouldn’t make sense,” he admitted, “but one can never be sure. Slaves are valuable commodities, especially young ones like the group we corralled the day you arrived. A man who . . . well, a man involved in nefarious dealings could easily be swayed toward dealing in recycling slaves to new owners in the South. There’s a considerable market, and it’s much more profitable than the honest business of rounding them up in Africa and dragging them halfway across the world. For one thing, they’re healthy if they’re already here. And they’re trained if they’ve already belonged to someone else.”
“Dominic,” Abbey interrupted, turning sharply. “I’ll admit your argument makes sense. But I’m telling you here and now that I’m a better judge of character than to be taken in by a good actor. Jacob Ross is simply not the kind of man you’re describing.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Of course not. You know I can’t. He went with Pollock, and that confuses me. They’re not like each other, and not the kind of men who get along.”
“And you’re certain it was this Pollock fellow and not someone else that Ross walked off with?”
“That Pollock rattlesnake, yes—” Anger boiled into panic as she clapped her hand to her lips and drew a quick breath. “Oh, God—what if Jake doesn’t know about Pollock? What if he’s been lassoed into something more dangerous than he thinks?”
“Now, Abbey—”
“Dominic, I must follow my feelings. There are times when a woman must simply follow her feelings—”
He caught her by the shoulders and forced her around to face him. “Abbey, what if you’re wrong? Think clearly. What if you’re mistaken about him?” His blue eyes burned into hers with that ugly truth. He lowered his voice. “Could you ever accept it?”
Abbey stared up at him, at the common sense he represented, and felt her turmoil deepen. When she tried to speak, it came out as a whisper. “Please don’t stop me . . . I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to tell him.”
She pushed away from Dominic, suddenly realizing she was escaping as much as pursuing.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dominic stepped in front of her, cutting off her dash for the front door. He clasped her arms again, more firmly and somehow more gently this time, and prevented her from pushing past him.
“Abbey . . .” Whatever he planned to say suddenly fell away. “I understand,” he began with some effort, “what you’re feeling, these confusing sensations . . . the island and its folk are strangers, the East is new to you, you’re a widow hardly a year now. . . . Jacob Ross is an attractive young fellow . . . I know. . . .”
He looked down at her with something else pulling at him. It was as though the power of speech had been pulled right out of his mind, leaving only the intensity she saw behind his eyes. The depth of his loneliness showed itself in his desperation to help her, to try to stop the wheels of suspicion from rolling over her.
Before he could take another breath he drew her up against his big frame and was dipping his head to meet her lips.
The power and gentleness of Dominic Nash caught Abbey off guard. Everything about him was recognizable to her senses. He was so like her husband, in so many disconcerting ways—enough ways that she reacted to his kiss almost out of habit alone. Memory took over, flooding her with the comforts of familiarity, burying the hot streak of concern for Jake that sizzled in her now. Dominic was comfortable, sensible. Friendly, nice, gentlemanly, recognizable, easy—
Much too easy.
She broke away, even though the breaking off wasn’t easy at all. “Please, Dominic, don’t confuse me now. Let me sort things out.” She squeezed past him and dragged her shawl over her shoulders again.
Dominic collected himself quickly from this embarrassing moment and clasped his hands together as though to keep them from reaching for her.
“You mustn’t go, Abbey,” he said, clearly working at not being too stern with her. “Not if you hope to see Pollock pay for his crimes. You do want that. . . .”
“Want it?” She swung around. “I’ll bum in hell for eternity if it’ll get Thomas Pollock down there, too, once and for all.”
“Then you mustn’t mention anything to Ross yet.”
Her fingernails cut into her palms. “Why not?”
“Because,” Dominic said, pausing to slow down his words to a deliberate, placating pace. “Because if he’s in league with Pollock, Pollock will be tipped off and he’ll get clean away. So far he’s done nothing on the island to incriminate himself. All I have is your word. Is there any legal writ against him in Wyoming Territory?”
Abbey’s shoulders slumped. “No. He was the ringleader, but he always sent others to do his dirty work. We couldn’t prove anything outright. But he engineered the bushwhacking of my husband and two other cattlemen who wouldn’t sell out to him. Our county was convinced enough of his guilt that Pollock was run out of the territory, but we couldn’t get the skunk behind bars where he rightfully belonged.” She clasped her hands to the sides of her head. “I can’t believe what’s happening. That he’s here, of all places!”
“But he is. And if what you say is true, and”—he paused, clasping his hands behind his back—“I do believe you, then we have a potentially explosive situation on our hands that is much larger in scope than I ever guessed. It’s plain we’re not dealing with a petty smuggling operation. Now I’m sure of that.”
“A landgrabber like Pollock doesn’t involve himself with petty thievery,” Abbey said fiercely. “He does it on a grand scale. The risk is bigger, but when you’re unscrupulous to begin with—”
“The job is rewarding, yes.” Dominic’s red eyebrows drew inward. “I will not allow you to wander through town alone tonight. If you insist on continuing to see Jacob Ross, I shall be forced to keep tighter watch on you,” he promised, summoning up that facade of cold resolve, “for your own safety.”
Even in this moment of supreme ferocity, Abbey felt a grin rise on her cheeks. “Is that a threat?”
“Of course,” he admitted. “What else would work on such a woman as yourself?”
She nodded then and huffed a small sigh. “Little. But I’ll heed your words. I want Pollock. Dangling, if possible. If I have to coil the noose myself.”
The face that haunted her as she tried to sleep that night was not Pollock’s, but Jacob’s. What was Ross doing with him? Did he have any idea what kind of man he was?
Well, enough thinking about it. Enough tossing, enough pitching.
The drawer of her dresser rattled in its socket as she pulled it out too far in her anxiety. She grabbed at it; the noise sounded as though it had shook the whole sleeping household. The pounding of her heart was enough to do that on its own as she pulled out her split buckskin skirt, a collarless shirt of thick flannel—ugly, but functional—a leather vest that would break the cold ocean breeze before it chilled her skin, and her wide-brimmed plainsman hat. Just to remind herself she wasn’t an eastern lady—tonight she needed not to be—she pulled out her stiff leather belt with the buckle of heavy Spanish silver. Laternlight glinted on the design etched into the silver, and she paused over it. A gift, from Lowell. For their third . . . no, fourth anniversary.
She buckled it around her waist, though it didn’t quite fall right over the buckskin skirt. What matter? Some part of Lowell would go with her as she tracked down his killer.
And do what when she caught him?
Burying her thoughts in action, Abbey threw herself down on the floor and dug her boots out from under the bed, swiveled about, and pulled them on with impatience pecking away at her.
Halfway down the narrow hallway, she flinched at the click of a door opening. “Abbey?”
“Oh, Lucy!” she gasped, spinning. “Shhh!”
Lucy was pulling on her dressing gown. She stepped out into the hallway, leaving her door open in case the baby cried. “Well, wh’ever are you off to, eh? An’ wot yer dressed in?”
“These are my everyday clothes. I’m going out. And what are you doing up so late?” Even as she asked, Abbey sensed the reason, and she added, “Couldn’t sleep?”
Lucy’s youthful face glowed in the light of the single tiny lamp that lit the hallway during the nights. “Not too good, mum. I were downstairs, wanderin’ about, an’ Mr. Nash, ee found me an’ talked me inter ’avin’ a cuppa tea wiv ’im.”
Abbey frowned. “Dominic’s down there?”
“Sure ’nuff. Ain’t ee sweet, though? Takin’ such goo’ care of ’nuther feller’s widda like ee do . . .”
“Yes. Lucy, can you—”
Another door popped open down the hall, and Abbey thought she’d end up putting the boys back to bed, but it wasn’t the boys’ room that had spawned more unwanted company. It was Cordelia’s.
“Something amiss?” the housekeeper asked as she belted her night robe. In spite of the late hour, she looked as neat and unruffled as ever, and wide awake.
“Oh, Cordelia . . . nothing. Well, yes, something.” Abbey motioned the two women close and lowered her voice. “I’m going out.”
“Seems you are,” Cordelia said, scanning the unusual clothes Abbey was wearing. “Why, at this hour of night?”
“Unfinished business.” She bandied about the idea of not telling, then decided the situation couldn’t be stranger if she did. “The man who killed my husband is on the island. I mean to find out why.”
“The man oo—” Lucy’s round eyes bulged. “No jokin’?”
Cordelia’s eyes also widened. “What’s this man’s name?”
“Thomas Pollock,” Abbey blurted hatefully. “If you see or hear anything about it, I’d be obliged if you’d tell me. Cover for me, won’t you both? If the children need anything—”
“Not to worry,” Cordelia said. “But you shouldn’t be going alone. Let me get dressed—”
“No, no,” Abbey interrupted. “I’m much happier by myself, and much faster. I’ve been by myself for a long time, Cordelia, so don’t fret over me. Just don’t let Dominic know I’ve left the house.”
Lucy nodded and offered her crimped little smile. “I’ll keep the mister busy, mum. Ee’s tryin’ ter teach me ter talk proper. I’ll jus’ let ’im!”
“Thanks to both of you. You’re gems.”
“Oh, we know that,” Cordelia whispered. “But don’t you be too late. No telling what I’ll have to do then.”
“Where yer going?” Lucy asked as Abbey doubled back toward her room.
Abbey swung about. “I can’t go downstairs if Dominic’s there. I’ll have to climb down the trellis outside my window.”
“Oh, ’shaw, mum! I’ll get yer out. Foller me.” Lucy clutched the too-long skirt of Cordelia’s borrowed dressing gown and pulled it up as she started down the stairs, motioning Abbey to follow after.
Abbey stole a comforting glance from Cordelia, then sneaked downstairs after Lucy. It made sense; Dominic was expecting Lucy to come back down. When Lucy reached the bottom she swiftly tugged open the big front door and shooed Abbey out.
As the door shushed closed behind her, Abbey heard Dominic call from the kitchen, “Is that the front door opening?”
“Aw, naw, sir, jus’ me chasin’ out a mouse. Not t’worry—’ere I cum—”
Lucy’s voice was muffled as the door clicked shut.
Night air folded around Abbey’s shoulders. She immediately forgot the house and Dominic and the children and set herself forward toward her undefined task: to find out what business Thomas Pollock was weaving on the island and how best to hang him with it.
It was after midnight. The town of Nantucket was snoozing beneath a cloud-threaded sky. The sound of her boot soles on the cobblestones, soft slaps like leather striking a horse’s hide, jarred her over and over with a terrible ambivalence. Jake’s face swarmed in and out of her mind, swimming between the pulling sensuality of the lighthouse—a place to be alone—and the unexpected incursion of Pollock’s eyes, long ago turned bitter and greedy by his way of life. Abbey’s memories clogged up with the feeling of victory when the law forced Pollock to leave Wyoming. It had seemed so final, such a ringing defeat for him. Now she knew a man like him was never completely defeated as long as there were other fields left open for him to sow, and Nantucket was providing that open space. Remote, bustling with trade, needful of connections to the mainland, and far from anyone who knew his background. Until now. Now, she was here.
This victory was a cold lump that wouldn’t melt until she played it out, until she pushed through the ice and found out what involvement Jake Ross had with this awful man. And she wondered, as the lump grew frostier, what she would have to do.
Or even what she intended to do in the next few minutes. She hardly had time to decide. She could already hear the steady thump of muffled sea songs from inside The Brotherhood. Tell Jake . . . not tell him . . . tell him and make him save his own skin somehow, risk losing her chance to slap Pollock with a good club of revenge. She had to look in Jake’s eyes. If she could do that, she would know what to do. That mystical connection between them would tell her the truth. Certainly a man like Jake couldn’t look at her and lie with his eyes.
She almost turned away as her hand touched the gnarled iron handle of The Brotherhood’s door. But her hand wouldn’t come away from that latch until she had already pulled the door open. By then she was already inside.
Very dark. Very loud. Smoky. Voices—howling sailors lost in an off-key song.
The clink of glasses, the stewy smell of rum and coffee and moist wool. Not altogether unpleasant once she got used to it.
From the low-ceilinged foyer in which she stood, Abbey spied an inner doorway through which all the noise and smell was coming. She was still hidden from that inner sanctum and had a second chance, no matter how unwanted, to change her mind. She almost wished that she hadn’t been given this chance, rather than having to stand here with the opportunity to leave clean and quick.
She stood there, prey to the vacillation that worked at her. If she waited until the song ended, she’d be making too obvious an entrance. Better to slip in while the men were still involved in their howling.
Too late. The sea song climbed to a drawn chorus and ended in a round of laughter, applause, and mug-pounding. Then, without a beat of hesitation, another song picked up in its place, but this song wasn’t as rat-eaten as the one before, and its singer’s voice was deep and enticing.
She had to go in. There was no choice. Be there, Jake, she prayed silently.
She stepped inside, straightening her posture. She wanted no mistakes about her intent to be in this place at this time, nor her intent to stay until she got what she wanted.
The Brotherhood’s inner room was crowded with men in dark sea coats, most of them still wearing hats and caps. There was a slight scent of oil clinging to them like the glow cast on them from a dozen globed candles on long wooden tables. Redbrick walls caressed blurry shadows and softly wedged yellow light from hanging lanterns like those she’d seen on the ship that had brought her to the island. In the crook of the elbow-shaped pub, the man with the nice voice was playing a concertina and leading the song. Beside him was a man with a fiddle and a young boy playing a whistle. The crowd of men beat their grog mugs on the worn wooden tables and indulged in the chorus. Warm and low-slung and cozy, the pub epitomized its name.
Suddenly, the music died away, voice by voice, fiddle by concertina, until only the whistle twittered a few extra notes and finally stopped, too. One by one, heads turned toward Abbey as notice of her presence spread through the pub. From the far end of the elbow-shaped room, faces craned at her as layers of men tried to see what the interruption was.
A self-conscious smile tickled her lips, but she tried not to let it take over her face.
Soon there was nothing but an uncomfortable shuffle, where a moment ago there had been singing and pounding.
The silence was deafening. Finally, after what felt to Abbey like forever, a seaman stepped forward, dragging his cap from his head and holding it in both hands as he approached her. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he began, “this is a tavern.”
Abbey didn’t blink, but opened her eyes a bit wider and said, “Yes. Thank you.”
A relay of nudging moved through the pub, and caps started coming off as though someone had just dropped a church on top of these men.
Abbey’s lip stiffened, holding in a giggle. Their discomfort would work in her favor. They’d seen women before, but certainly not any dressed as she was dressed tonight. They didn’t know quite what to do with her.
Finally one of the men stepped forward and offered her his hand. Abbey took it and was escorted down the short ramp into the pub itself. Two other men actually picked up a table and moved it out of her way, while another pulled off his coat and lay it across a chair for her to sit on. Her hand was passed from man to man as she was drawn into the pious fold toward that chair. She arranged herself in it, not knowing what she had done to encourage their gallant behavior. When she was seated, she scanned their candlelit faces and asked, “Has anyone see Jacob Ross?”
The men glanced at each other. Then somebody said, “He’s probably down at the beach, hoping there’s a low enough tide so he can walk to the mainland.”
A ripple of chuckles moved through the crowd, but it was self-conscious and short-lived. When it faded, one of the men near her gave a nod toward the back of the pub, and a younger man shouldered his way through the crowd in that direction. Going to get, Jake, perhaps, she hoped.
A heavy gray beard with a face lost inside came close to her, and she found herself looking down at a mug of steaming rum drink.
“Like a grog, miss?” the voice from the beard asked.
“Not grog, you mule-eared sea cat!” someone else hissed. “Tea!”
The mug was snatched away and a search launched for the nearest available cup of tea for the visiting lady. At one point someone let out a mild curse, which Abbey could barely hear in all the shuffle, and he was attacked by the men around him and bodily hauled away, as though the lady were going to dissolve from hearing it. As she watched the offender being swallowed up by his mates, she rather wished she had.
Sermon-silence was soon restored, and another man hunkered before her, kneading his poor cap. “Would ye . . . would ye care for calf’s head stew, miss? We got plenty.”
“Or chowder?”
“Or Spanish hash?”
“Or potato pudding?”
Abbey found herself staring down at wooden bowls and hand-thrown stone plates full of various concoctions, most of them half-eaten.
“Oh, no, thank you,” she declined.
But they were relentless in trying to make up for the fact that they’d been having such a good time.
A bony, clean-shaven sailor pushed through the crowd and begged, “Muffins?”
Abbey forced herself not to smile, but she nodded. “Well, perhaps a muff-”
“Muffins!”
“Muffins!”
“Muffins!”
The order rang from a half dozen voices and ricocheted through the pub on its way to the kitchen. Several men stumbled away, only to be replaced by several others. They’d probably kill each other if she asked for butter.
Ah! At last, a recognizable face. Jake’s cousin—had he said Matthew? Yes, the one with the beard. His sleeves were rolled up and he wore a yellowed apron. The other cousin was close behind, nudging his way through the crowd toward her. She couldn’t remember his name, but it mattered little now. They were in turn followed by four other men carrying, respectively, a muffin, a butter knife, a plate, and a small stone crock, presumably with butter in it.
They reached her, and Matthew immediately slid into a chair across the table from her. He wasn’t able to say anything until the muffin, knife, butter, and plate had been arranged before her with supreme care.
She nodded at the sailors who had provided her spare repast. “That you all very much. It looks delicious.”
That triggered a congratulatory round of back patting and hesitant little grins.
Finally Matthew waved the men into silence. “Mrs. Sutton,” he greeted, if a bit sternly, “what could we do for you?”
Abbey parted her lips to speak, but the goggling eyes stopped her. It only took Matthew a moment to realize what the problem was, and he branded the crowd with a chiding glare. “The lady’s business isn’t any of yours. Back to your grog, every one of you. James! Sing a song, curse you!”
James shifted on his stool and asked, “Uh . . . which one?”
Matthew threw his hands up. “What do I care? Anyone! Sing “New York Girls” or something.”
James shifted again, thought about the songs, then shifted yet again. “Uh . . . I can’t sing that one.” Clearly he could sing it, but because of Abbey’s presence, he didn’t want to sing it.
Matthew leaned forward, glaring again. “Anything!”
The men gradually moved back to their tables, well-behaved as schoolboys during a spelling test. Several of them whispered suggestions to James, who could only shake his head at them. After several failures, James and his fellow musicians struck up a halfhearted tune that had no lyrics at all, but only music. The lilt was gone from the beat, and most of the sailors now huddled over their mugs and stew and engaged in properly quiet conversation. Occasionally one would glance toward Abbey, probably wondering when she would leave and rescue them from church services.
“Now,” Matthew urged as his brother hauled over a third chair and sat near Abbey.
“I suppose this means Jake isn’t here,” Abbey said. “Do you know where he is?”
Matthew and his brother glanced at each other. Then Matthew said, “He’s got business tonight, ma’am. He’s not available.”
“He’s in town then, not out at Great Point?”
“Can’t say, ma’am.
“Maybe you can’t say, but that’s what you’re implying,” she told him. “He could be in danger.”
The two cousins exchanged another look, this one of a different dimension than the previous.
“Danger of what sort?” the younger man asked, leaning forward.
Abbey lifted her eyebrows. “I can’t say.” she retaliated. “I’m not altogether sure of my facts. If I could simply speak to him for a few moments, I’m sure things would clarify themselves. Please . . . I don’t want him to be hurt or get into any more trouble than he might already be in. After all, it’s his decision. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, he can make up his own mind, can’t he?”
If there was any honor among cousins, she had played on it well enough. She saw in their eyes that neither of them wanted to make any secondhand decisions regarding her relationship with Jake.
They shifted uncomfortably. Then the younger man said, “He’s out on Old South Wharf. Or he was. Whether he’s still there or not—”
Matthew shot him a scolding glare, but said nothing to keep him from telling her more, so Abbey asked, “Some specific boat?”
“Not sure, ma’am. Ma’am . . . the wharf is no place for a lady at night.
“Neither is a pub,” she tossed back, “but I’ve been treated gallantly here. One never knows where good or evil hide. Thank you for your hospitality.” She slid out of her chair and headed for the door, relieved to be on her way again, then doubled back long enough to pluck up the muffin that had been presented to her with such ceremony. After all the trouble she’d caused, it wouldn’t be polite to leave the muffin behind. She nodded at Matthew and his brother and spun toward the exit again, leaving behind her only a mutter of curious voices.