In his cabin, Gray carefully poured out a portion of the water to reserve for use the next day. As he undressed, bathed, and shook out a clean shirt from his trunk, he considered Keturah Tomlinson again and why she might have taken such affront.
He knew that something dire had happened between her and Lord Tomlinson, and the thought of it made his head pound in fury. Partly his anger burned for the older man, who had clearly abused her in some way, making her wary of all men. Yet part of his anger was reserved for himself, because by the time he had become aware of her engagement, it was too late. In point of fact, he hadn’t even realized he might wish to consider anything beyond friendship with Keturah until the day his mother had casually shared the fact that Ket was to be married a fortnight hence to Lord Tomlinson.
He could still see his pretty mother in the warm light of the parlor lamp, the words slipping from her lips in such an offhand way. But her eyes had been sharp upon him, penetrating, well aware of her effect.
There had been no recourse for him. He had not the means to court one such as Keturah Banning. He was years away from amassing the fortune necessary to approach her father, not even having a home of his own, which was vital if one was vying for a bride.
A bride. Seeing her in her lace and finery that day had left him unaccountably despondent. To pick up one of the fine dining room chairs and smash it against the wall. To laugh uncontrollably. To drink until he forgot his pain. All of which he did with some gusto, finally, after the wedding party had waned and he was alone at home again.
Nothing was the same after that. He had chalked it up to losing one too many of his childhood friends, those who abandoned the champagne and dances and furtive walks among the gardens that led to long kisses, and take their places among the boring, staid adults they’d mocked for years. Not that Keturah had ever been like that. She was far too serious to engage in the antics that had distracted him since they had come of age. But when she walked down that aisle . . . something seemed to come unhinged within Gray.
It was his brother Sam who had found him among the sharp remains of the chair, several deep gashes in his mother’s wallpaper. A slave had hovered in the doorway, her eyes filled with fear. But Gray could only alternately weep and laugh.
Sam had crouched down before him, put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. They were silent for several long breaths together. It was the only moment of compassion he could remember from his brother since they were boys. Then he’d said, “You’re a young fool, Gray. ’Tis time to end this before you become an old fool. But you must be the one to decide that.”
Later, as Gray splashed his face and then watched as the water dripped back down to the bucket again, he considered his brother’s words. At first he’d been enraged, but days later he’d decided it was truth. And the truth felt as bracing as this water in the bucket before him. Had not the Lord himself been telling him the same thing? His path was going to bring him nothing but pain and boredom; it was an endless cycle of seeking the next conquest, the next daring thrill, each of which became progressively harder to find. He needed challenge, hope, something beyond him. And he’d found it when his eyes scanned the map of the West Indies framed in his father’s old study.
Now he had only to make his inheritance produce something grand. Perhaps then all might look his way anew. He shaved his cheeks smooth, splashed tonic on his face, straightened and tucked his shirt into his waistband, then tied his neckcloth in a smart knot and pushed the ends inside his collar. He reached for his jacket and tugged it across his shoulders, thinking of Keturah and her sisters. Briefly, he considered the adorable Selah, who was the prettiest of the three by far, and certainly warm in her attentions. Or Verity with her fascinating way with animals. She was rather attractive too.
He stood with arms outstretched, bracing himself against the doorframe, thinking. About Selah. About Verity. He might have some success in courting either of them. But no, if he were honest with himself, it was Keturah who drew him most. With her smoldering golden eyes and deep intensity, even with her apparent wounding and defensiveness. But it was her surprising gumption to do this—to head off to the West Indies—that seemed to awaken his old, belatedly discovered attraction to Keturah. What sort of woman did such a thing?
“The sort of woman, Covington,” he muttered to himself, releasing the doorjamb and straightening his coat, “who can never be yours.”
———
Promptly at six, Keturah and her sisters were led to the captain’s quarters in the aft portion of the ship by their servant Primus. As requested, he’d donned his perfect black-and-white livery, and Keturah appreciated that he’d taken the time to shine his buckled shoes. The women had dressed in evening gowns, and as they made their way down the cramped hallway, Ket worried her sisters would not pay attention and step on her own gown’s short train, a lovely burnished copper color. So far, they had not, even as they struggled to walk a straight line as the ship moved to and fro over the waves.
Perhaps they truly were becoming women of care and consequence, she thought. Mother would be proud. At twenty-three and a widow, Keturah thought of herself as far their senior. But Verity was already twenty-one, and even Selah had recently celebrated her eighteenth birthday. She knew she ought not think of them as children any longer—after all, they’d bravely taken on the decision to accompany her to Nevis, something that made many adults quake at the thought—yet she resigned herself to always thinking of them as her chicks to be kept in line. Perhaps it was an older sister’s lot, whether one was twenty-three or eighty-three.
Would that I might reach the ripe age of eighty-three! She had known a few women who had reached their eighties, but no men. Most she’d known in society died in their fifties or sixties, when fevers swept through and winnowed out many in their declining years. It was as if Death went through the orchard of the living, cutting down those trees no longer producing fruit, or those too young to yet do so. The old and young, always dying, as well as some in between. Mother, Father, oh how I miss you . . .
She blinked back tears, realizing they’d reached Captain McKintrick’s quarters. He and his first mate, Mr. Burr, greeted them. She curtsied and hurriedly moved to the chair at the captain’s right when the first mate slid it out from the table for her. Once seated, they were introduced to the other guests already at the table. A Mr. Munroe Smith, a long-nosed tutor on his way to Nevis to school the Grimshaw children. He stood beside the balding, round-faced Mr. Odell, a merchant who hoped to build three stores in Jamaica, St. Christopher, and Antigua, all specializing in fine linens.
There were four other gentlemen present: a pair of young society men about Verity’s age, whom Keturah soon gathered intended to do little more than gamble in every port, and two shipwrights on their way to the shipyard of St. Christopher, one of whom wore spectacles. The two gamblers engaged in a hearty conversation with the shipwrights. Ket hoped the more honest, earnest pair would keep from falling into the more wily pair’s hands. Because from the start, she sensed that Mr. Wood and Mr. Callender, the gamblers, were up to no good. There were far too many days ahead on their voyage with little to distract them.
Gray Covington took a seat at the far end. He was in a clean shirt and coat but wore no powdered wig like the first mate and most of the men did. A pang of regret ran through her. As much as his presence irritated her, she’d rather it be him across from her or by her side than the abrupt first mate, or the captain who was already paying far too much attention to Verity, quizzing her about Brutus’s “last English prize.”
A steward poured wine into their crystal goblets that were fashioned with uncommonly wide bottoms, perhaps to keep them more stable. When all were served, Captain McKintrick lifted his goblet and surveyed each of his guests. “May the sea be kind to us and the winds favor our journey.”
Keturah smiled benignly, even as the captain hurriedly turned to raise his glass to her, then to Verity on his other side.
“Is your cabin to your liking, Lady Tomlinson?” asked the first mate in an obvious attempt to be pleasant.
“It is quite sufficient,” she answered. “But I wonder if my sisters might have access to additional storage. With all their trunks, their quarters are quite cramped.”
“I fear that shall not be possible,” the first mate grumbled, setting down his goblet as a steward brought the first course, a savory stew, before them. “Every spare inch of this ship is full of wares bound for the Indies. Half of them with the Banning name on the crates, I expect.”
Half? It was an outrageous claim. Keturah sucked in her breath and held it, refusing to bite. There was something familiar about the first mate’s ways, something that reminded her of her late husband, Edward. He’d never been one to mince words or choose the polite way to word a response to her—at least after he’d married her and had her safely at home at Clymore Castle. After I had no escape.
She inhaled slowly, willing herself to maintain her poise. “Now, Mr. Burr, you and I are both aware that we paid our fair share for every square inch that our cargo has taken in your hold. Did we not?”
He looked over at her with hooded eyes as he hunched over his bowl of stew, then shifted his attention to the meal before him. He didn’t have the temerity to respond. Instead, he waved her away as if she were a pesky fly.
“Do be good enough, Mr. Burr, to answer the lady,” Captain McKintrick said, his voice tinged with warning. All semblance of merriment in his eyes was now gone as he stared at the older man.
Conversation ceased as everyone glanced from the captain to the mate and back again.
Mr. Burr wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a swig of wine, and stared dolefully toward his superior. “Very well, Captain. I shall answer the lady.” The way he said lady made Keturah feel as if he thought her the very antithesis of it. He turned toward her. “Yes, Lady Tomlinson, you paid for your cargo space. We have been fairly compensated for your cargo, cabins, as well as passage for your slaves. I only hope that you do not think of this vessel as some parlor at sea. We are a working ship, intent on getting to the Indies as fast as possible, and getting on to America. Anything that gets in the way of that causes me . . . agitation.”
“Mr. Burr,” said the captain, his voice rising abruptly, “a word. Outside.”
“No, Captain,” Keturah quickly said. “I appreciate your coming to my aid, but this ship, as grand as she is, is hardly big enough to contain such animosity. Shall we not clear the air here and now? Shall we not all enjoy a more peaceful voyage if we do?”
The captain appeared caught between his rage and his desire to please her. But when she stubbornly held her seat, he took his seat again and gestured to her to continue. “Please.”
“Mr. Burr,” Keturah began, “why is it that you seem to resent our presence upon the Restoration?”
He tucked his chin and studied her a moment. “May I speak frankly, Lady Tomlinson?” he asked.
“Of course.” Under the table she twisted her napkin, fighting not to cower in the face of his uncouth, frosty manner, or in the heat of attention of every other guest at the table.
“I believe that women of station have no business sailing to the Indies, certainly not without the protection of a man. I think it rather foolhardy. And I believe that you are a temptation to my crew. A dangerous distraction. There is a reason that women are considered ill luck on the high seas.”
The captain leaned forward, fingers steepled before his nose, rage radiating from him. But he held his tongue, allowing her to reply.
Keturah swallowed hard again, wishing she could take a gulp of wine. “I see,” she said carefully. How she handled this, she knew, would color the rest of their voyage. “You have a right to your opinion, and I shall take your warning under consideration. Believe me when I say that my sisters’ well-being is my utmost concern, and we do not wish to be a distraction to your crew.”
“A ship has no quarter to coddle the fairer sex,” Mr. Burr pressed, his eyes slowly drifting down her neck and up again. “Now I must not only see to our demanding schedule, but make certain you and yours are not . . . molested.”
The vague threat behind his words proved too much to bear. She rose so abruptly that her thick skirts knocked over her chair. Thankfully, Primus caught it and set it to rights behind her. Every man around the table rose too, the last being a reluctant Mr. Burr. But she was not done.
“Rest assured that traveling to the Indies was not a mad, girlish lark, but rather our only possible decision, Mr. Burr. I would ask that you give us the respect that such a dire choice deserves, rather than treat us in such a demeaning, churlish manner. It is beneath you, is it not?”
“’Tis most certain, lass,” the captain said gravely. “And mark me, should Mr. Burr share your table, he shall not speak to ye in such a manner again.”
Slowly, Mr. Burr bent and reached for his goblet, lifted it in silent toast, and took a deep drink of it. “I shall not address you in such a forthright manner again because I think we have come to an understanding,” he said, gesturing her back to her seat as if dealing with a trifling girl.
She paused beside the captain. “I refuse to dine with a man who threatens me and mine. Either you have control of your crew or you do not. Do you?” This she directed to the captain.
“Rest assured, Lady Tomlinson, I do. Regardless of what Mr. Burr intimated.”
“That is heartening to hear. Nevertheless, this has quite taxed me. I think it best my sisters and I take our meal in our rooms this evening.”
Regret passed over the captain’s face. “That is most understandable. Good evening, Lady Tomlinson.”
“Captain,” she said with a brief bob. “Gentlemen.” She nodded to the rest, carefully avoiding looking at either Gray or Mr. Burr.
As she swept from the room, her sisters right behind her, she heard the young gamblers trying to cover laughter beneath the pretense of coughing and felt her cheeks blaze at the spectacle she’d been a part of creating.
But there was nothing for it. She simply could not stand to be in the presence of the first mate—nor how he raised the spectre of her late husband—for one moment longer.