Taming Charlotte (43 page)

“It’s here!” she cried. “The ship is here—Patrick’s already spotted her, and she’s flying the English flag!”

Gideon shrugged and then winked at Charlotte, as if to say,
Didn’t I tell you?

“Well,” Jayne went on, her personality like an explosion in the room, “are you going to marry me and take me with you or not, Gideon Rowling?”

The clergyman laughed. “Oh, yes,” he said, and it seemed
to an embarrassed Charlotte that the lovers had forgotten her presence entirely. “If you’ll have me, beautiful Jayne, I will marry you with pleasure.”

They met in the middle of the room and clasped hands, and Charlotte fled, cheeks crimson, heart pounding with both envy and the profound joy of knowing that even death could not prevail over love.

Charlotte flew down the hall, wanting to see the approaching ship for herself, with no walls around her and no window glass impeding her view. Reaching the staircase, she decided the banister offered the quicker means of descent, and swung herself astraddle of it, skirts and all.

At the bottom, she was stopped not by the familiar newel-post, but by a strong, muscular arm.

She turned, breathless, and looked straight into Patrick Trevarren’s indigo eyes. For a moment she saw something flicker there—passion, perhaps, or laughter. In the next instant, though, the expression disappeared, and Charlotte feared she’d only imagined it.

“I will thank you to think of my child’s safety,” Patrick lectured coldly, “if not your own.”

Charlotte allowed him to lift her unceremoniously off the banister, but raised her chin to a defiant level when she stood on the steps, her face on a level with his. “Don’t be tiresome, Mr. Trevarren. I’ve never obeyed your commands before, and I don’t intend to start now.” She moved to pass him, but he took her arms in a painless but inescapable grasp and held her in place.

“There’s a ship coming in,” he said. “It’s English, probably headed for Australia. I want you to sail to Sydney and then book passage from there to the United States.”

Charlotte stared at him. “And you? Where do you plan to be while I’m doing this?”

“Here,” he said. “Mr. Cochran will travel with you, as your escort and protector.”

Charlotte’s knees gave way, and she dropped to a sitting position on the step, feeling desolate. Patrick crouched in front of her and, to her surprise, touched her face gently.

“I know it seems to you that I’m being unreasonable,” he
said, in a hoarse voice. “But believe me, Charlotte, you and the child will both be better off this way.”

Grief welled up inside her, overflowed in tears and fury. “That’s just
your
opinion, Patrick Trevarren! Being sent away from you is like being told I’ll never see the sun again!”

Pain moved in Patrick’s face, but he clearly would not be swayed from his decision. “Is that any way for a ‘new woman’ to talk?” he asked gruffly. “What would your stepmother say if she heard you carrying on like this?”

Charlotte sobbed. “I don’t care what anyone else says, Patrick—I was born to be with you, and you were born to be with me, and if we’re separated, we’ll both suffer terribly!”

He kissed her forehead, in the same mild way her father or uncle might have done. “How can you say that?” he asked. “Have you forgotten that your problems began when you met me?”

“The moon will go out, Patrick,” she whispered. “The sea will dry up. Please—don’t do this to me, don’t do it to yourself!”

Patrick sighed, kissed her again, with no more passion than before, and then rose to his feet, towering over her. “It’s for the best,” he said. And then he walked away and left her sitting there, huddled against the banister, bracing herself for the end of the world.

Hours later, when the sea had long since swallowed the sun, the English ship sailed into the harbor and several small boats appeared. The vessel had been running short on fresh water, and seeing lights on the island, the captain had decided to make a visit.

Raheem was brought up from his prison in the cellar—this was the first time Charlotte had really laid eyes on the stranger who had been so obsessed with possessing her—and put under formal arrest by the officers of the
Victoriana.
Crewmen took him back to the main ship, carefully bound.

We’ll be traveling together after all, the pirate and I,
Charlotte thought miserably. Patrick had ordered her belongings packed for a long journey, and Mary and Jacoba had obeyed his command, though sullenly.

Captain Michael Trent was a handsome man, tall, with rugged features and hazel eyes, and he gave Charlotte an
openly appreciative look when they were introduced that night, at a formal dinner in Patrick’s fancy dining room.

He’d be glad to see Mrs. Trevarren safely to Sydney Town, he said. Once there, he would personally arrange her passage to America, making certain to select the best ship and captain available.

She would be back in her own country, safe and sound, in a matter of weeks.

Patrick, who should have been pleased that his wishes were being carried out so smoothly, scowled throughout the meal.

Later that night, when Charlotte lay grieving in her marriage bed, Patrick came to her for the first time since before the disastrous explosion that had nearly taken her life. Saying nothing, offering no promises or excuses, he stripped off his clothes, stretched out beside her, and took her in his arms.

She felt him tremble as he held her close against his side.

“Don’t send me away,” she pleaded, but with quiet dignity.

“I have to,” he answered. He rolled over, so that she was pinned gently beneath him, one of his muscled legs stretched across her thighs. “Say that you don’t want me here, Charlotte,” he said, “and I’ll go.”

She wondered that one relatively small person could contain the emotions she was feeling then without bursting. Charlotte was angry, and she was wildly frustrated, but she also loved this man, adored him with an intensity as mysterious and far-flung as the heavens themselves.

“Stay,” she whispered, plunging her fingers into his hair, bringing his head down so that their mouths touched and then engaged, powerfully and with desperation.

Their lovemaking was different that night, though no less consuming. They hardly spoke—usually they teased and tempted each other until the need became too great and they hadn’t the breath to speak—and when their bodies were joined, satisfaction became torment. They battled each other, knew pleasure so keen in its poignancy as to be nearly unbearable, then immediately needed to be fused again, as if there had been no communion, no release.

Eventually exhaustion overtook them. Charlotte, who had been to the stars in Patrick’s arms, felt more alone and hopeless than ever before. She cried until sleep came.

In the morning, hasty farewells were said all around—there was no sign of Patrick anywhere—and Jayne and Gideon and Charlotte and Mr. Cochran were taken out to the
Victoriana
in long, graceful skiffs. Their baggage had apparently been loaded on board during the night.

Charlotte stared back at the island, unable to believe that the grand adventure was over, that Patrick had not had the charity of spirit even to bid her a proper farewell. Gideon took her hand and squeezed it.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze, for Charlotte at least. Jayne and Gideon were properly married by Captain Trent, and after much preparation, the ship moved gracefully toward the open sea.

Charlotte stood at the railing, watching as the magical island slowly vanished, along with her most cherished dreams.

April 1878
Quade’s Harbor
Washington Territory

M
ILLICENT QUADE BRADLEY WAS NOT A FANCIFUL WOMAN,
but as she watched her sister, Charlotte, now visibly pregnant, go about her daily life, she often thought she heard the distant howl of the banshee.

“Charlotte is dying,” Millicent said to her husband, Lucas, one bright spring morning as the two of them sat on the screened sun porch of their house across the street from the Presbyterian church.

The pastor, a good-looking man with a square jaw, pale gold hair, and the calm gaze of someone certain of things eternal, put down his teacup and gazed out at the harbor. Millicent’s look followed his; as always, the sight of the gray-blue water, rimmed in snowcapped mountains and multitudes of lush evergreens, lifted her spirits.

“You must have faith, darling,” Lucas said. He took her hand and squeezed it, and she was thankful, oh, so thankful, for the steady, unshakable love of her husband.

Charlotte deserved just such a husband, Millie thought angrily. It wasn’t fair that a fine woman like her sister should get her heart broken by that scalawag of a sea captain. Papa and Uncle Devon often argued as to who would have the
privilege of horsewhipping Patrick Trevarren in the street, if he ever dared to show his face in Quade’s Harbor. Millicent, normally a peaceful person, half hoped Mr. Trevarren would get his due.

“Lydia says Charlotte weeps at night,” Millie went on, heartbroken. “She eats only for the baby’s sake, not her own, and constantly watches the bay for ships.”

Lucas sighed, but did not speak. One of his greatest strengths was his ability to listen, unruffled, making no apparent judgment on anything that might be said.

Suddenly Millie began to cry. “I can’t bear it, Lucas,” she whispered, “it’s too dreadful, seeing Charlotte suffer like this—she was always so strong, and so full of laughter and mischief!”

Lucas rose from his chair, came around the white iron table to crouch beside Millie. “Darling,” he said, putting a strong arm around her, “Charlotte is home, safe among people who cherish her. Given time, she will be herself again.”

Millie dried her eyes with the heels of her palms. No one, with the possible exception of Patrick Trevarren himself, knew Charlotte as well as she did. Sure, Charlotte was resilient, and there could be no question that her large and boisterous family loved her to distraction. Because there was a passageway of sorts, between her own soul and her sister’s, however, Millie was aware of something the others could not sense.

The light of Charlotte’s spirit, the essence, grew dimmer and dimmer as each day passed.

Lucas stood beside Millie’s chair, one hand resting on her shoulder. “I have calls to make,” he said.

Millie turned her head, kissed his hand lightly, and nodded, without looking up at him. When he was gone, she cleared the table, arranged the dishes in the kitchen sink, removed her apron, and set off for the main house.

Charlotte sat on the widow’s walk on the second floor of her father and stepmother’s grand house, hands resting on either side of her enormous belly. A faltering smile touched
her lips. “Perhaps it will be today,” she told her unborn child. “Perhaps your papa will return to us today.”

She heard one of the French doors creak on its hinges and resettled herself in her chair as her stepmother came out to join her.

Lydia was a strikingly beautiful woman, with her fair hair and strong spirit, a fine mother to her flock of sons and a good wife to Charlotte’s father. Moreover, she was a power to be reckoned with in the operation of her husband’s far-flung timber interests.

She stood at the railing of the narrow terrace, tendrils of blond hair lifting in the misty salt breeze. “If I could wish you one thing in all the world, Charlotte,” she said, without looking at her stepdaughter, “it would be a love such as the one your father and I share. Ours is the sort of union that nourishes the soul and helps each of us to be our best selves.”

Charlotte listened in silence. Lydia was not making an idle boast, for the glorious passion between Brigham Quade and his beloved wife was visible to anyone who took the trouble to look. Millie and Lucas had a similar bond, although theirs was quieter.

Lydia turned, looked down at Charlotte, who remained in her chair, awkward and uncomfortable because of her great bulk. “I would not normally speak this way, knowing what pain you’re in, but I feel that I must. I think you and your Patrick Trevarren have the same kind of bond. If I’m right, Charlotte, then you must prepare yourself to fight for your marriage.”

Charlotte swallowed. Patrick had, to all evidence, deserted her as well as their child. Oh, he’d ordered the construction of a grand house in nearby Seattle, and not one but two new clipper ships were being built for him, but he had never paid his wife a visit or even written to her.

“I thought we did,” she said. Not a moment had passed, nor a heartbeat, since her parting from Patrick that afternoon on the front stairs of his island house that she hadn’t yearned for him.

All during the sailing to Sydney, she had expected him to
come after her somehow—perhaps another ship would pass by the island. But Patrick had never appeared.

Reaching Australia, she and Mr. Cochran had seen Jayne and Gideon off on their missionaries’ journey into the interior, and rested a few days, attending the theater together and exploring the countryside. Raheem, the pirate, was sent back to Britain to be tried.

Charlotte was soon restless, and she asked Captain Trent of the
Victoriana
to recommend a ship sailing north to San Francisco. There, she had said good-bye to Mr. Cochran and traveled on, via another vessel, to Seattle, where her father and Lydia and Millie had been waiting for her.