Love's Rescue (11 page)

“Oh, that.” She sank a bit, embarrassed by the stern words she’d delivered.

He motioned to his wheelchair. “No matter how much I improve my strength, I can’t move this chair by myself.”

“I’m sorry.” Elizabeth hopped up to assist. She should have considered his limitations, but she’d been consumed by her own troubles. In four years, nothing had changed. She needed to apologize. The words rose to her lips but would not come out.

“How would you know?” Charlie said. “Most people never see one of these contraptions, but it does serve its purpose.” He pulled open the lower shutters, effectively turning the window into a door. “I believe I’d like a little fresh air.”

She stepped into the parlor and grasped the handle she’d seen Nathan use the first day. “Do I just push?”

“Slowly. I don’t want to go headfirst down the steps.”

She was surprised by his attempt at humor. During the meals he had attended, he had spoken only to Father and Aunt Virginia. Each snub had decimated her resolve. Yet today he had initiated the conversation. This was her opportunity to set things right between them.

The chair was heavy. She struggled to push it over the threshold between the parlor and veranda. With extra effort, she maneuvered it near her rocking chair. “Is this all right or would you rather I wheel you elsewhere?”

“I would rather go to the harbor, board a ship, and sail the high seas.”

Each word hit with the force of an ax splintering wood. It was her fault that he could do none of those things. He hadn’t been able to play with other boys or go anywhere outside this house. Though she’d felt trapped here, he truly was.

“Charlie, I’m so—so—” She couldn’t finish.

“Stop trying to be like her.”

Elizabeth didn’t have the courage to ask who he meant. Aunt Virginia or Mother? Both were true. “A lady must live up to certain expectations.”

“That sounds like Aunt V. Why do you listen to her? You know things are different in Key West.”

“You don’t understand. Now that Mother is gone, I must take charge of the household.”

He snorted derisively. “Who asked you to?”

Father’s assertion that he and Charlie were doing well popped into her mind, but she could not believe she had overstepped her bounds. “A home needs a woman’s influence.”

He rolled his eyes. “Aunt V again.”

“Perhaps she is right about this. Don’t you miss having Mother around?”

His expression hardened. “You aren’t Mother.”

“I realize that, but I want to become like her.”

“Then stop listening to Aunt V.”

Elizabeth knew he was right. Aunt was nothing like Mother. One carried her authority with grace, the other wielded a sharp tongue and the threat of punishment. But it was difficult to admit failure to a younger brother. “I’m trying.”

Charlie stared past her. “Call for Nathan to wheel me to my room.”

The abrupt dismissal stung. “Why? I can do it.”

“Because you have a visitor.” He pointed to the street, where Rourke O’Malley drew near, an oleander blossom in his hand.

His hair was trimmed, his whiskers shaved, and he wore what must be his Sunday best—a tan-colored frock coat and dark trousers. His boots had been polished and a cravat was tied smartly atop a brilliant white shirt. Only the straw hat looked out of place. He doffed it with his free hand and bowed.

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her hair. “Do I look all right? I should have had Anabelle curl my hair. I should be wearing a bonnet or at least a cap.”

“Stop.” Charlie grimaced. “You sound like a girl.”

“I am a girl.” Or a woman, rather. A woman of twenty, and a man was paying her a visit. Though she’d had a dozen and more gentlemen call at Aunt Virginia’s house, none had sent her heart pounding and her insides fluttering like Rourke O’Malley.

“Good morning, Miss Benjamin.” His gaze drifted to her brother. “Charlie.”

To her surprise, her brother grinned at Rourke. “I was wondering when you’d get up the courage for another whuppin’.”

“Whupping?” Elizabeth looked from Rourke to her brother and still didn’t understand.

“Rourke plays chess with me,” Charlie explained.

“I have yet to win.” Rourke climbed the porch steps and handed her the flower. “I remember how much you liked your mother’s oleanders.”

Her eyes misted. “They were beautiful, but the storm destroyed them.” She drew the fragrant bloom to her nose and savored the memory.

“I’m surprised she didn’t replant them.”

“Me too. I wish she had.”

Charlie cleared his throat, turned from Rourke, and bellowed, “Nathan!”

Elizabeth heard the groom hurrying to the front of the house. He appeared momentarily, a blackened cotton rag in hand. “Beggin’ yore pardon, Master Charles, I plumb fergot about fetchin’ you.”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Elizabeth admitted. “Florie can handle the rest of the silver polishing. You see to Charlie’s needs.”

“Yes, miss.”

Her brother gave her a look of grudging approval before bidding Rourke farewell.

“Do stay,” she said, knowing that she needed a chaperone yet wanting to be alone with Rourke.

Charlie looked from Rourke to her with a smug grin. “I have to get back to my studies. Come back tomorrow, Captain, and I’ll give you a thrashing fit for an admiral.”

The bravado brought a smile to her lips. Her brother had changed so much that she barely knew him. The young Charlie had reveled in grand tales of adventure yet was timid out-of-doors. He hated the boat and refused to swim. He avoided confrontation. She would have thought the trauma he’d suffered would make him more timid. Instead, he spoke boldly and maintained a friendship with Rourke that Father could not like.

Rourke shook Charlie’s hand. “You have a bargain, Master Charles, but you won’t be the one giving the thrashing.”

Charlie laughed. “We shall see.”

Then Nathan wheeled him into the house, leaving Elizabeth alone with Rourke, a breach of propriety that Aunt would decry to Father if she ever found out. Perhaps sitting on the veranda in full public view was not the best idea.

“Would you care to sit in the parlor?” Elizabeth suggested.

“Your aunt is home?”

She shook her head. “She is at market with Cook.”

“Then no, I must not stay. I simply wanted to know if you and your aunt have recovered.”

“We have, thank you.”

The air seemed to crackle between them, like lightning in a storm. Dangerous yet enticing. The rumbling awareness and flashes of excitement made her feel more alive than she’d been in years. Four years. She could not look away, could not breathe, could not run to safety. Perspiration trickled down her temple. She wished she’d brought a fan with her, but no breeze could whisk away the danger of the moment. Father might return for the midday meal. Aunt could return from market at any moment. Suddenly nervous, she lifted the oleander blossom to her nose.

“I wish I could smell these all the time.”

“If you tuck it behind your ear, its scent will be close.”

“What a fine idea.” She managed a smile, though emotion made her fingers shake so that she couldn’t manage to secure it.

“Let me help.” He took the blossom and gently slipped it into her hair.

His touch sent prickles of delight racing all over her.

“Thank you,” she breathed, hazarding a glance into those sea-green eyes.

He stood far too close. “It was my pleasure.”

His pleasure. The stirring she felt at his words was not proper. “I will have Florie bring tea.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I can’t stay long.” He twirled the straw hat between his hands. “You look . . . lovely.”

She was wearing the everyday mourning gown without a bit of adornment. “Thank you.” That was the polite thing to say, but she wanted to ask a thousand questions. Did he wonder why she’d left for Charleston so suddenly? Could she even explain it? Was she the woman who had broken his heart? Was that why he’d come here today? She wanted to ask every question that had crossed her mind over the last four years but couldn’t manage to say a thing.

“Your aunt is well?” he inquired.

“I am perfectly fine,” Aunt Virginia called out.

Elizabeth started. She had not been aware that anyone was near, least of all her aunt, who hurried toward the house at a prodigious rate. With each frenzied stride, she gasped for breath.

After Cook let them both in the gate, Aunt motioned her toward the cookhouse. “You, go on.” Once Cook had left, Aunt turned on Elizabeth. “I was only gone a moment, and look what you’ve done.”

Rourke descended the stairs and extended an arm to assist Aunt. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.”

Though Aunt accepted his assistance, she withdrew her hand the moment she reached the top step. “I’m very sorry, Captain, but my niece has much to do and cannot entertain any visitors.” She held out a hand. “Come, Elizabeth, you must prepare for tonight.”

Rourke bowed and backed away. Then he gave Elizabeth the most wonderful smile. It spoke of love and a future and everything she had dreamed about for years. She watched him walk down the street, ignoring Aunt’s fussing. He’d felt the connection between them. Without words, he had washed away the sins of the past and welcomed her into his future. His smile offered hope that turned storm clouds to sun.

“Come along, Elizabeth. We must prepare for Mr. Finch. Your father has great expectations for this evening.”

In a single moment, Aunt snuffed out that hope.

A
unt Virginia dragged Elizabeth into the dining room. After Rourke had disappeared from view, Aunt yanked the oleander from Elizabeth’s hair and tossed it out the side window.

Elizabeth raced to the window in time to see Nathan accidentally step on it on his way to the front porch, broom in hand.

“Why did you do that?” she cried. “It was only a flower, and now it’s ruined.”

“You are in mourning and should not flaunt pink blossoms.”

Elizabeth rounded to face her aunt. “You might as well have thrown me outside. That bloom reminded me of Mother. Oleanders were her favorite.”

Aunt’s expression softened a little. “Helen always was sentimental, but she would have wanted you to present the proper image, not accept flowers from a stranger.”

“He is not a stranger.”

“One meeting does not constitute an acquaintance. Now, let’s get down to business.”

Further protests would have fallen on deaf ears, so Elizabeth
dreamed of Rourke while folding napkins. She envisioned him seated at the table when she arranged the place settings. The candles would cast his chiseled features in a warm glow. He would smile at her. She would blush and avert her gaze until Father wasn’t looking.

“Nicely done.” Aunt Virginia’s rare compliment drew her from the daydreams. “Yes, this should impress Mr. Finch quite nicely.”

Percival Finch. The silver and crystal would not touch Rourke’s lips but those of Mr. Finch. Instead of garnering Rourke’s smiles, she must suffer through those of Mr. Finch. The thought sat upon her like lead.

When Father returned early from the office and Aunt followed him to his study, Elizabeth retreated upstairs. That conversation did not bode well. Aunt would tell Father that Rourke had called. Father would reprimand Elizabeth and command her to give Mr. Finch her utmost attention.

She stared out the window, longing to run to the harbor like she had as a girl. On a night like tonight, she would have shinnied down the tamarind and escaped. Instead she must endure Mr. Finch.

“I think I shall go mad,” she whispered.

The tamarind leaves rustled in response.

By the time the supper hour approached, Elizabeth decided not to encourage Mr. Finch in the slightest. She did not change from the everyday mourning dress she’d worn all day.

Aunt Virginia frowned when Elizabeth descended the stairs. “You could at least wear the crape mourning gown that you wore on our passage. Anything would be better than that plain old thing. Why, it has dust on the hem.” She ordered Florie to brush the gown.

Elizabeth countermanded the order. “If this is an ordinary supper centering on business, then a finer gown would look out of place. You can return to the cookhouse, Florie.”

“Yes, miss.” The girl jerked into a little curtsey and hurried down the hallway.

Aunt Virginia was not done. “At least have that maid of yours curl your hair. And don a cap. You look more like a servant than mistress of the house. Anabelle!”

The murmur of male voices on the veranda announced Mr. Finch’s arrival.

“It’s too late,” Aunt Virginia lamented.

Anabelle arrived with the dowdiest cap in Elizabeth’s wardrobe and a quick grin for Elizabeth. “Dis be real purty, Miss Lizbeth.”

Elizabeth stifled a chuckle. Anabelle was making sure she looked her worst. “Thank you, Anabelle.”

Aunt shot her a warning glare, but it was too late to say anything, for Father and Mr. Finch entered the room.

Aunt brightened. “Mr. Finch, how wonderful to see you again.”

“And you, Miss Dobbins.” He removed his top hat and kissed Aunt Virginia’s hand.

To Elizabeth’s disgust, Aunt warbled with delight.

Their guest now turned his attention to Elizabeth. His dark gray suit was certainly elegant but impractical in this clime. She rather preferred Rourke’s light-colored linen coat. And Rourke didn’t have to keep mopping his forehead like Mr. Finch. When Mr. Finch unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a bright yellow waistcoat, Elizabeth nearly burst into laughter. With his sharp beak, the man appeared to emulate the bird with the same name. She had to feign a cough to hide her mirth.

Not so for Charlie, whose chuckle as Nathan wheeled him
from his room drew a startled look from Mr. Finch. Elizabeth turned her back to their guest to give her brother an affirming grin. The fact that his opinion of Mr. Finch matched hers buoyed her spirits.

“Miss Benjamin.”

Elizabeth returned her attention to Mr. Finch, who was already bowed before her, hand extended. The thought of placing her hand in his turned her stomach, but Father watched with every expectation that she would behave properly. Childish impulses must be set aside. She dropped a limp hand before Mr. Finch. He took it in his clammy fingers and raised it to his lips. The press of his thin, dry lips made her shudder. If Mr. Finch noticed, he did not mention it.

From his superior height, he surveyed her with the keen eye of an auctioneer. “You are lovelier than I recall.” He idly stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

Elizabeth fought the urge to yank her hand away. While Father watched, she must display civility. However, a gentle, imperceptible tug would make her feelings known. “Thank you, Mr. Finch.”

He released her hand. “Please, let us dispense with formalities. Since I work for your father, we are practically family. Do call me Percy.” His nose twitched at the last, as if sniffing for her agreement.

“Hello, Percy,” Charlie called out from beside her.

Mr. Finch frowned and jerked his head as if attempting to elude a pesky fly.

Elizabeth stifled a smile and inclined her head in the manner her mother had always used. She swept an arm toward the dining room. “Would you care to take your seat, Mr. Finch? I understand supper is ready.”

Though she had carefully placed Finch next to her father
and across from Charlie, Aunt Virginia upset the entire order of things by dragging him to Elizabeth’s side.

“You must sit here,” Aunt insisted. “It has the best view.”

In daylight, one set of windows opened onto the front veranda and street while the side window overlooked a tangle of buttonwood and mangrove beneath the wild tamarind, but the room had no view at this hour. Before the first course of turtle soup was served, darkness reigned.

Elizabeth concentrated on properly sipping the soup from her spoon, but Finch’s nervous laughter and jerking head nearly drove her to distraction. Added to the yellow waistcoat, the sight was too much, and more than once she had to raise her napkin to her lips to smother a snort of laughter.

Charlie grinned and cocked his head to indicate he too found the man ridiculous.

Aunt Virginia glared at her.

Elizabeth coughed again before lowering the napkin. “Forgive me.”

Mr. Finch leaned unbearably close. “Wine will ease the spasms.” Without asking if she drank spirits, which she most certainly did not, Mr. Finch poured wine into her empty glass.

The only time Elizabeth had attempted wine, it made her cough and cough until Aunt Virginia sent her from the room with strict instructions never to attempt spirits again.

“Thank you, but tea will do.” Elizabeth raised her teacup, took a sip, and smiled. “All better.”

“Very well, then.” Mr. Finch appropriated the wine and in short order downed both his glassful and hers, brightening his cheeks to a rosy hue.

“A toast,” Charlie said, raising his glass of lemonade. “To my fair sister’s return.”

Father lifted his glass of wine and finished the toast. “May she prosper.”

Elizabeth caught the hint of warning. Her hand shook as she lifted her teacup.

“Here, here,” Finch called out before downing another glass of wine.

Elizabeth sipped at the tea, uncomfortable with the shift in attention.

Father must have considered the congratulatory toast finished, for he resumed discussion of the fort’s construction. “I have heard rumblings that it will soon be named.”

“Perhaps we might have a gathering in honor of the event,” Mr. Finch said. “Perhaps a social or a tea. Wouldn’t you like that, Miss Elizabeth?” Without waiting for her answer, he launched into a list of all the ladies who had invited him to tea. Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted to Rourke. He would never attempt to prop himself up in her esteem by naming his conquests.

While Finch chirped on, she indulged the daydream of sailing Rourke’s sloop across the straits. What was Harbour Island like? As far as she knew, his family still lived there. He had seven siblings, all younger, and a father who had taught him to sail and dive. The
Windsprite
had belonged to Rourke’s father, but the elder O’Malley no longer wrecked. Rourke visited his family at least once a year. Many years ago she’d asked to go with him, but he had told her she must grow up first. Well, now she was fully grown.

“Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?” Mr. Finch asked.

That jolted her from pleasant musings. She nodded and smiled, even though she had no idea what he’d said. Aunt’s eyebrows had shot up at Mr. Finch’s obvious breach of decorum by using her first name but eased back down when Father did not object.

“Do you expect Judge Marvin to hear that wrecking case on Monday?” Mr. Finch asked Father.

“Which case?” Charlie asked. “The one about Uncle Jonathan’s ship?”

Elizabeth perked up. At last Finch had said something of interest. “Yes, is it about the
Victory
?” She had heard of no other recent wreck, but she’d only been here a week.

Aunt chimed in, “I do hope you will win the case for Jonathan.”

Elizabeth’s heart pounded. “Father, are you representing my uncle?”

“Of course he is,” Aunt said.

That meant Father opposed Rourke. Elizabeth stared at the chicken that Florie set in front of her. Somehow Aunt Virginia had found poultry at the market, but that wasn’t the change of events that caught her attention. The salvage was contested. That meant Rourke would face her father in court. Father never lost a case. This did not bode well for convincing Father that Rourke was a valid suitor.

“Must tell her de plan now.”

John’s plea wasn’t the only reason Rourke strolled up Caroline Street in the weak light of a crescent moon. The morning’s brief encounter with Elizabeth had whetted his appetite to spend more time with her. Something had changed in her, something that had quieted her youthful exuberance. He instinctively wanted to fix it and bring back the joyful girl he’d once known.

His mate’s insistence that Rourke speak to Anabelle gave him an excuse. He could ask Anabelle to send her mistress out to speak with him.

Away from the harbor, the streets were empty except for a young couple who had eyes only for each other. He ducked into the alley that ran behind the Benjamin house. Anabelle might be inside at this hour—probably would be—but Rourke preferred waiting in the shadows here than with an anxious mate. John wanted to bring his wife to safety in the Bahamas, and Rourke had given his word to help. After the hours spent with Winston this morning, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The salvage should have been a simple matter. A bilged ship usually met no resistance from the master. But not this time.

He waited behind the tangle of buttonwood and sea grape edging the Benjamin property. As with many of their neighbors, a tall picket fence surrounded the grounds. The rear gate, still open at this hour, could be locked at curfew, though few here did that. Immediately inside the gate stood the stable, which was quiet at this hour. The far end of the stable was set aside for slave quarters.

A woman hurried from the main house to the cookhouse. From her stature, it must be Anabelle. If he could get her alone, he could pass on the message. He crept to the side of the cookhouse and waited. And waited. It seemed she would never come out.

Finally she stepped out, carrying a large pan.

Rourke croaked the distinctive call of the egret.

She slowed her step as if waiting for more and then hurried forward.

Rourke followed, staying in the shadows.

She drifted toward him. “When?”

“Night of the Harvest Ball. Be at the gate an hour before midnight.”

She nodded.