Love's Rescue (31 page)

After the carriage rolled from view, Prosperity broke the seal on the envelope. A single sheet of paper, unmarked, cradled a number of large bills. She could not count the sum now, in the street, but it appeared enough to settle accounts and pay for room and board until David learned of her circumstances. A letter would take weeks or even a month or more to arrive. Then the same time for his reply to return. By then . . .

Prosperity pressed the envelope to her midsection, overcome by the speed with which the world was closing in upon her.

Help me, Lord.
Show me Thy
path and the way Thou wouldst have me walk.

The simple prayer calmed her.

“She’s gone, is she?” Mrs. Franklin joined her in the yard. “Good riddance, if you ask me. Livvy deserved better from her sister, but there’s no sense fussing over what can’t be changed. Come, dear, let’s go inside and have a bite to eat.” She took Prosperity’s arm. “There will be plenty of time to consider your future tomorrow.”

Prosperity did not move, for the answer to her prayer struck with perfect clarity. Why wait for letters to wend their way south and then north again?

“I will go to Key West.”

Mrs. Franklin’s jaw dropped. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am not only serious, I am certain.”

“But my dear, you are letting your emotions speak. You have suffered a great loss and are not thinking clearly. Give yourself time to grieve. By the time your young man returns, you will be in a much better state of mind.”

“I am perfectly sane. In fact, my thoughts have never been clearer.”

“Naturally you want to see your fiancé, but do be practical. Even if you could afford such a voyage, someone must travel with you.”

Prosperity clutched the envelope. “I shall travel alone.”

“Alone? You cannot. Sea travel is neither comfortable nor safe. I speak from experience, dear. Mr. Franklin and I have traveled to Charleston in the past. It’s not a voyage to be taken without great care. A woman alone?” She shuddered. “Your reputation and quite likely your person would suffer.”

“It does not matter. David awaits me.”

“You cannot mean that.” Mrs. Franklin’s voice rose with every word, her expression earnest. “I will account your rash decision to grief, but even if you will not guard your reputation, you must consider the uncertainty of the seas. Your father was a seasoned sailor, yet the sea claimed his life. The risk is too great. Better your fiancé return to you.”

“He cannot. He would never leave his post.”

“Then wait. You are welcome at our house.”

Though Mrs. Franklin’s concerns chipped at Prosperity’s confidence, she would not be swayed. When weighed against servitude or destitution, the risk was small, for if she succeeded, her beloved awaited.

Prosperity squared her shoulders. “I am sailing for Key West, and you cannot persuade me otherwise.”

Key West
That Night

Lt. David Latham’s hand trembled. A drop of ink splotched onto the white paper.

“Not again.” His muttered frustration echoed off the walls of the small but adequate quarters.

Already the sheet of paper was a tangle of scratched-out beginnings and blotted ink drops. Once he got the wording right, he would begin anew with a fresh sheet of stationery, but two hours of wrangling had produced only the date. In thirty minutes, even that would be incorrect.

Ordinarily he handled any difficulty with calm precision. An engineer in the United States Army Corps must rely on logical analysis to conquer frequent setbacks. This one, however, was both personal and painfully unexpected. It drove a spike into the heart of his carefully drawn future.

It made this letter far from ordinary.

He returned the pen to its holder and flexed his fingers. To his right, the window opened onto a star-filled sky barren of suggestions.

How to begin? Every letter required a salutation, but no combination of words worked. His usual address bespoke an affection that would gladden his beloved’s heart. What cruelty when a paragraph later he must crush that joy. On the other hand, formal address would send her into a panic before he’d cushioned the blow with careful reasoning.

No, this was a delicate affair.

He laughed bitterly.

Affair
was too kind a word.
Debacle
fit much better, especially when he could not recall a single moment of the slip into temptation that led to this painful decision. To counter his disbelief, she had brought forth witnesses. The result could not be denied. He was responsible.

Oh,
Prosperity, dear Prosperity, what have I done to you?

He ran a finger over the daguerreotype that he had commissioned immediately after she agreed to marry him. The frozen image could not capture the glow of compassion in her gold-flecked hazel eyes. The interminable wait without moving a muscle resulted in too severe an expression. Despite the hardships Prosperity had endured, she brought joy and light to the darkest day. Her plain gown and cap in this picture reflected her present lowly estate. He had planned to one day clothe her in the fine gowns she deserved.

That hope was gone, whisked away in a single night of shameful revelry.

He kneaded his throbbing temples. Why couldn’t he remember? He had no recollection of Aileen Carlyle beyond some playful jesting when she brought the rum to the table he and his soldier friends occupied. The first toasts led to more and more until he awoke the next morning in the soldiers’ barracks with a splitting headache and no idea how he’d gotten there. After a stern reprimand, the incident seemed over until Miss Carlyle approached him two weeks ago with news that chilled his bones.

Why hadn’t he turned away at the grogshop door? Why had he even gone there? He never drank spirits, but the men had insisted, and he had been flattered by their attention. He’d let camaraderie draw him into temptation.

Why
such a terrible price?

How many times he had prayed for God to relieve him of this burden. How often he had dropped to his knees pleading for a miracle that would absolve him, but this sin could not be whisked out the door.

The fruit of his error grew, and honor dictated he must set matters to rights. That entailed breaking the unwelcome news to his fiancée. Such a thing ought to be handled in person, but she dwelt nearly fourteen hundred miles north of this tropical island outpost. A letter was his only means of communication. Delivery would take weeks, perhaps a month if weather delayed the ship. By the time she received this . . .

He heaved a sigh.

It would be done.

Irrevocable in the sight of God.

Thus he must write the painful letter, and a letter began with a salutation. He drew a clean sheet of paper from the desk drawer.

As an engineer working on the construction of the new fort, named in honor of the late President Zachary Taylor, he would move to larger quarters sufficient for a family after the wedding.

The event that had once filled him with anticipation now churned up dread. He had always envisioned a proper ceremony back home on Nantucket Island. His parents and brothers, cousins and uncles would witness the joyous uniting of kindred spirits in their family church. He had promised to wed as soon as he finished his tour of duty in Key West. Though this meant years apart, the income he earned here would build a solid financial foundation to start a family. The reasoning had made perfect sense at the time, and she had gazed up at him with complete trust.

Oh that he had tossed reason to the wind and married her at once.

He raked fingers through his tangled locks. Nothing could be done now to alter the plans. Fate—or rather, despicable conduct—dictated his future. He would wed sooner rather than later, and not to the woman he adored.

She gazed at him sweetly from the daguerreotype. Despite the loss and hardship she’d endured, hope shone in her eyes. That hope had been rooted in his promise.

He slammed the image facedown on his desk. How could he look her in the eye?

She trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He must break her heart. Dear, gentle Prosperity deserved the best after all she had suffered, not another loss.

Unable to bear not seeing her, he lifted the image once more. He traced the curve of her cheeks to the dimpled chin. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her resonant voice, surprisingly deep for one so small. He could still feel the softness of her hair, a lock of which was buried deep in his trunk. He could still smell the freshness of the sea upon her, as if she’d just climbed the dunes to look for her father’s lost whaling ship.

“You deserve better,” he whispered.

The cricket he’d not managed to evict from his room answered with a shrill taunt.

He ought to destroy the daguerreotype. That part of his life was over. But he could not bear to lose this last link to her, so he tore apart the frame and removed the silvered plate. He tucked the image between the pages of his Bible. Then he closed the volume and slid it into the bottom desk drawer beneath his engineering manuals and the Army regulations that ordered his days.

The time for regret was over. A man accepted his responsibilities, no matter how distasteful.

He picked up the pen, his hand steadier.

Dearest Prosperity
, he scrawled, forgoing the initial “my.” She was dearest to him still, though he could no longer claim her affection.

I cannot ask your forgiveness, nor do I deserve it. Though I am tempted to soften the blow, your honest, practical nature would not wish me to couch what I must tell you in false cheer. Thus I will be straightforward, trusting that your affections have so sufficiently dimmed over the two years of our separation that this news will not inflict great suffering.

I fear that I must break our engagement.

The trembling began again, so violently that he had to set down the pen. Driven by torment, he sprang to his feet and paced to the darkened window. Yanking off his spectacles, he stared into the night. In the distance, a few lanterns dotted anchored vessels. Nearer, lamps brightened the commander’s windows and glowed dimly at one end of the soldiers’ barracks. Soon they would be put out, leaving only the moon and the stars to light the post.

No light could illuminate David’s soul. Such sooty blackness could never be scrubbed clean. She was better off without him, but he was lost without her.

Despair welled again. Once more he pushed it down. Honor dictated but one course. Lives would be wrecked no matter which path he took, but only one protected the innocent.

Once again he sat at his desk and picked up the pen. He
could not profess what was in his heart, that he loved her still, that he would love her until the day he died. That would be cruel. No, this letter must sever their bond in a single stroke, break every connecting sinew, and leave not even a ray of hope. Only then could the wound heal. Only then could his beloved let go of the future they had planned together and turn her gaze toward another.

He dipped the nib in ink and touched it to paper. The words did not come easily. His unsteady hand bore witness. He scratched it out as best he could.

I will marry tomorrow.

Award-winning author
Christine Johnson
fell in love with the beautiful Florida Keys during her first visit in 1985. Since then, she has spent more and more time there each year, reading about the history and exploring the islands. Born on the shores of Lake Michigan, she has always been drawn to the water. From sailing trips on the Great Lakes with her husband to her years as a docent aboard a 1908 passenger ship, she gravitates to all things nautical.

Her historical romances have garnered the Laurel Wreath and the Winter Rose award, among others. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Romance Writers of America, and the Faith, Hope, and Love chapter of Romance Writers of America. After many years as a librarian, she is thrilled to write full-time now. Thank you, hubby!

These days she splits her time between Michigan and Florida with her ship captain husband. When not writing, she loves to kayak and explore God’s beautiful creation. You can connect with her through her website at
http://christineelizabethjohnson.com
, on Facebook at
http://www.facebook.com/ChristineJohnsonAuthor
, or on Twitter @ChristineJWrite.

ChristineElizabethJohnson.com

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