Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (2 page)

Her thoughts winged to the two aging nuns who helped run the shelter. Could one of them have taken ill? She quickened her steps.

The pocket doors leading to the parlor had been slid closed—only a slight crack let sight and sound through. As Tillie gave a knock, she glimpsed the hem of Amelia’s embroidered gown and the dark blue sleeve of her guest.

Amelia’s gown rustled as she rose. “Come in, dear.”

Curious now that she knew the visitor was not Father Ed, for he seldom wore anything but black, she slid open the doors and entered. Amelia stretched out her hands, one toward Tillie, the other toward the man who, once standing, towered over them both.

Lassoed by his steel-gray gaze, Tillie faltered on the threshold. Once before she’d felt herself snared by those eyes. A hint of compassion had softened them then, so she did not quake. Not so today.

Today, he stared with an intensity that sent shivers coursing over her flesh. Instinctively she rubbed her hands over her arms.

“Tillie”—Amelia glanced hesitantly at her and then at their guest—“you remember Captain Morgan?”

She swallowed on reflex. Aye, she remembered him. The question was, what was he doing at the boardinghouse?

And what could he possibly want from her?

Tillie resisted the urge to stumble back across the threshold as Captain Morgan stepped forward to greet her. Bowing, he swiped a flat cap from his head. Twisted between his large hands, the tortured gray herringbone resembled lopsided z’s.

“It’s nice to see you again, ma’am.”

“The pleasure is mine, Captain, though I must admit, ’tis quite unexpected.”

Captain Morgan raised an eyebrow, making her regret her hasty speech. Ever the angel, Amelia stepped forward and spread her hands.

“Captain Morgan and I were just about to sit down for some tea. Will you join us, dear?”

Tillie glanced at the mantel, where a clock made of cherry and fitted with etched glass kept perfect time. It was barely past breakfast. What on earth could be so important that Amelia allowed it to disrupt the proper order of the day?

Amelia ducked into her sight, her normally cheerful gray eyes somber and pale. “I’ll fetch the tea. It’ll only be a minute.”

Unease squeezed Tillie’s heart. Amelia was worried about her, and no wonder, considering the ragged state she’d been in the last time the captain had come to the boardinghouse. She gave her hands a reassuring pat and nodded. “Thank you, Amelia.”

For a brief moment, her eyes widened, questioning. Though Tillie knew the concern that must be running through her thoughts, she shook her head and straightened. She’d matured since the last time she’d clapped eyes on Captain Morgan, and both he and Amelia would know it.

Sighing, Amelia swept from the parlor. Tillie smiled, infusing it with as much warmth as she could muster and gestured toward a seat near the fireplace. The warm summer temperatures made building a fire unnecessary. Still, she pulled her chair closer to the hearth, as if by the proximity she might soak up the remnants of ghostly heat.

She waited while he situated his cap over his knee and leaned back to rake long fingers through his dark brown locks. His hair was a touch overgrown. It curled at the edges where it brushed his collar. Curious length for a ship’s captain, but not a farmer. Braedon’s hair had coiled in just the same way.

Her fingers tightened in her lap. “As I said before, your visit is quite unexpected. Not an unwelcome surprise,” she corrected hastily, “I just dinna realize you were in New York. Do your travels bring you here often?”

He pushed up on the chair, the ruddy color in his cheeks deepening. “Often enough to make me remiss. I fear I should have inquired as to your welfare sooner.”

Tillie smiled as the confusion cleared from her mind. So that was it. And it explained the look troubling his gray eyes. “Remiss, Captain? Certainly not. You did quite enough caring for me as you did. I never would have survived alone in this big city. Grateful I am that you found this boardinghouse and brought me here to recover.”

“It was recommended to me.” He frowned. “The ship’s doctor knew of the place, not I.”

She shrugged. “However I came to be here, it has been a godsend.” Amelia insisted that the residents of the boardinghouse
call her by her Christian name, but Tillie would not disrespect her by addressing her so in front of a stranger. She gestured toward the door through which Amelia had exited. “Mrs. Matheson has been like a second mother to me.”

Hurt rose in her chest. Even that was not exactly true. Tillie’s thoughts flashed to her parents—to the disapproval sparking from their eyes at their last meeting. It was a look she had never witnessed from Amelia. Gratitude, thick and bittersweet, clogged her throat.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the captain said, cutting into her thoughts. He nodded, and though it did not quite reach his eyes, he smiled. Or attempted a smile. The crooked grimace looked forced to his lips. Once more, he snagged his cap and tormented it betwixt his fingers. “And I’m glad to see you are looking well.”

“As are you,” she said, noting the stark white sweater at his neck against his bronzed skin, and then blushed when she realized her mistake. He’d meant from the illness that had laid hold of her after Braedon died, not her overall appearance. “That is to say,” she amended, “it’s always good to see someone from home. Ireland, that is.”

The tinkling of china sounded outside the door, and Tillie sprang from her seat. “There’s Mrs. Matheson with the tea.”

Indeed, it was not Amelia who waited in the hall with the tea cart, but Laverne, the boardinghouse’s cook and housekeeper. She ducked her head to whisper, “We’ve a situation in the kitchen, I’m afraid. Amelia sends her apologies, but she won’t be joining you.”

She pressed the cart into Tillie’s hands, the lines of strain on her otherwise plump features attesting that she was anxious to return to the kitchen to face whatever problem had detained Amelia.

Tillie bowed her head and lowered her voice. “That’s quite
all right. Laverne—” she caught the housekeeper’s hand before she could flee—“have you seen Meg?”

Laverne nodded, dislodging the mobcap covering her gray curls so that it flopped over her forehead. “Had to send her after eggs. The hens still aren’t laying, though I’ve tried everything to figure out what could be wrong.” She clucked her tongue like one of the hens she disparaged. “There’s an added expense we could do without, and no doubt.” Sighing, she turned for the hall. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen. Otherwise, don’t hesitate to ring for Giles.” She cast a narrowed glance at Captain Morgan. “He’s outside fashioning new shoes for the mare. She went lame last week.” She cut her eyes back to Tillie. “But he’ll come in a hurry if you call.”

“Thank you, Laverne.”

Jerking the mobcap back into place, she gave a nod and strutted off, her back stiff and shoulders square. A grin quivered on Tillie’s lips. So, she didn’t like the captain. Yet she’d only just glanced at him. What on earth had put her out?

Smoothing the surprise from her face, Tillie lifted the tea tray from the cart and carried it to the table where Captain Morgan waited. “My apologies. Laverne is not normally so gruff.”

Mirth shone from his countenance. “Trouble in the kitchen, I gather?”

Tillie offered a shy smile and poured the captain a cup of tea, which she handed to him and afterward poured a second cup for herself. “Nothing the two of them can’t handle, I’m sure.”

Captain Morgan took a swallow of tea and then replaced the cup on its saucer and set the two aside. “I dinna mean to keep you. Truly, I just wanted to see how you’d fared and perhaps inquire after the little one.”

Startled, Tillie rattled her cup in its saucer, then set it
down on the polished silver tray. Of course he didn’t know. He couldn’t. He’d left before . . .

She took a breath and forced her gaze to his curious face.

He leaned forward, one hand clutching the gray cap, the other reaching toward her. “Mrs. McKillop? Are you all right?”

McKillop. Braedon. She hadn’t told him.

“I’m fine, Captain. Your words surprised me is all. I’d forgotten that I was . . . that at the time I left the ship . . .”

He went still, his eyes changing from bluish gray to steely blue. “Mrs. McKillop?”

Heat swept up to enflame her face and neck. Shame, thick and stifling, draped over her like a shroud. She clenched her jaw and forced the words through gritted teeth, “My name be Miss McGrath, Captain. I was never married.”

The captain’s face registered shock, then concern.

“As for the child . . .” She lifted her chin. Even now, two years after the fact, hot tears burned the back of her eyes. She held them in check with iron will. “It pains me to say she never drew a breath. My daughter was stillborn.”

Though she’d spoken the words with a steadfastness any seafaring man would envy, Morgan read a wealth of conflicting emotions in her eyes. She wasn’t the unaffected, impassive portrait she portrayed, sitting there so perfectly rigid, with only the tension in her knuckles giving her away. Still, he admired the attempt and measured his tone to the same careful tenor she’d used in addressing him.

“I’m verra sorry to hear of your loss. You have my deepest sympathy, as well as that of my crew.”

Most of his crew, he corrected silently, upbraiding Doc anew. But surely one man’s actions weren’t to blame for the death of the
bairn
? He set aside his cap and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

“Your illness . . .” He cleared his throat. “Did your illness have anything to do with the child being stillborn?”

She gave a curt shake of her head before rising to her feet and crossing to a long window stretching up the wall alongside the fireplace. “Your pardon, please, Captain, but this is not a subject I am comfortable discussing. I’m sure you can understand why.”

He rose when she did, though he maintained his place at the sofa. “Of course. Forgive me. I dinna mean to pry.”

Of course he’d meant to pry. It was why he’d asked. This was getting him nowhere. He circled the coffee table and crossed to stand next to the window adjacent to the one Mrs.—Miss—McGrath occupied. He’d yet to take in completely that new revelation, but one thing at a time.

“I only hope . . . that is . . .”

She looked at him, a sort of waif-like vulnerability and strong determination he found both daunting and irresistible in her gaze. He gave himself a mental kick. “I pray the conditions on board my ship dinna contribute to the loss of your child. ’Twas a difficult crossing to be sure, but I hope you know that I . . . that my crew and I did everything we could to ease the passage.”

The words rumbled like stones across the hollow space between them, for they were only partly true. Her expression darkened a split second before she turned her face away—long enough to see that she was reliving painful portions of the voyage in her thoughts.

Her fingers shook as she clenched both hands to her midriff. “Do not berate yourself, Captain. I find no fault in the actions of you or your crew. Truly, I fault no one but myself.”

He mulled the words a moment. What cause could she have for blaming herself? He shook his head and gestured toward the chairs. “Will you sit? I’m anxious to hear how you have fared since arriving in New York. Besides a place to stay, you were able to secure employment?”

If his persistence troubled her, it didn’t show. Instead she appeared relieved by the change in conversation. She placed her fingers in his palm and allowed him to lead her back to the fireplace.

“Aye. I have a position with a fine milliner now, though that too was thanks in part to Mrs. Matheson.”

He assisted her to sit and then reclaimed the chair opposite hers, casually lifting his cooling cup of tea as though chatting with a lady in the parlor of her home were a common occurrence. Once maybe, he thought, his mind dashing to Moira, but not since Da’s death. Not since he’d left home and taken over the family’s shipping business.

After downing a steadying swallow, he replaced the cup on its saucer. “A milliner? That requires some talent.”

Her cheeks colored as she looked away to reach for her own cup. “I’ve always been quite skilled with a needle.”

“But . . .” He paused to phrase his words with care. “Providing for yourself must be difficult. You’ve never considered returning home to your family?”

Once again her lashes swept down to cover her deep brown eyes, but not before he saw them spark with anger.

“My family is here, at the boardinghouse.”

As she spoke, a vein tightened along her neck, creasing the otherwise flawless skin. Was it his prying that ignited such a response or something else? He angled his head for a glimpse of her rosy cheeks. “Miss McGrath—”

Her eyes flew to his, and once again he felt himself at a loss, a condition that was both foreign and unwelcome. He cleared his throat and growled, “I . . . I feel I owe you compensation of a sort for . . . well, the trouble you endured aboard my ship.”

Her brow furrowed in bewilderment. “Captain, I’m sure ’tis quite commonplace for people to take ill while making their passage to America.”

Fool. She isn’t an imbecile.

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to give away his secret whether he wanted to or not. He offered a contrite shrug. “True enough, but my lack of communication with you
afterward is without excuse. I had a duty to fulfill, a moral obligation as my mother would say, and I fear I’ve failed. I’m here to make amends in whatever way I can.”

She still looked confused, if the tiny wrinkle between her arched brows was any indication, but at least she didn’t appear suspicious. “Your mother?”

That was the word she’d lighted on? He gave a slow nod. “Aye. She was quite distressed when I told her about you . . . that is, about your situation,” he amended, shifting in his chair. “She has a kind heart, and it troubled her that I’d left America without determining your fate.”

Her lips turned in a frown. “Surely she kinna expect you to attend so diligently to all of your passengers?”

No. Likely it had more to do with his incessant talk of a beautiful, frail lass that had spiked his mother’s interest so.

Discomfited, he leaned forward, causing his chair to creak. “Truth be told, there aren’t that many passengers. Mine is more of a cargo vessel, as I’m sure you noticed, and my crew more accustomed to dealing with freight than people. My mother is very tender-natured, so when she heard about your husband’s passing . . .” He paused, but she didn’t flinch at his use of the word
husband
, so he pressed on. “She was concerned for you and troubled over your welfare. I promised her I would look in on you the next time my travels brought me to New York.”

That much was true enough, though it was a half-mumbled promise he’d made in Dublin. The real fact of the matter was that Doc’s confession had prompted this visit, not Ma’s concern.

Not for the first time he rebuked the desperate straits that had forced him into accepting the fare of the woman and her “not husband” in the first place. He then rebuked his own meddlesome interest after her companion took ill and died.
Why couldn’t he have heeded Doc’s advice and just left her in New York . . . ?

Doc’s advice
.

Morgan grimaced. Miss McGrath was certainly not to blame for the events that had taken place aboard his ship. In fact, had she chosen another vessel, her circumstances might be very different.

Guilt crashed over him, as cold and crushing as the sea. “Now that I’m here,” he continued, “I can’t help wondering, Miss McGrath, why you never returned to Ireland?”

Her head dipped, and a loose curl tumbled to cover half her cheek. “There was no going back, Captain. This I knew the moment Braedon and I set foot aboard your ship. Besides, my parents died not long after I left Ireland. My future, my family ’tis all here now, and that be simply the way of it.”

The way of it?
Wondering at her choice of words, he narrowed his eyes to peer at her. She stared back, her eyes wide and guileless. She was an innocent, this one, whatever her circumstances.

He felt a surprising wash of protectiveness surge through him, similar to the emotion he’d experienced the day he took her to see the dying man he’d presumed was her husband. He’d acted against ship’s protocol. Passengers quarantined for illness were not allowed visitors. Even Doc warned against it, though of course now Morgan knew why. Still, compelled by compassion, he’d taken her to the dying man’s quarters, allowed her to sit by his side as he breathed his last, then watched over her as she sobbed into the wee hours.

All that and more were his blame to bear.

Snapping his mouth closed, he tugged at the collar of his suddenly too-tight sweater. “I know ’tis very little recompense for all you’ve endured, but I would like to offer you passage back to Ireland. It would be free of charge, of course. My crew
and I will be departing for the Carolinas within the next week or two, for a shipment of tobacco. After that, we’ll make for Liverpool, and then home to Dublin. You’d be most welcome to accompany us, if you so desire.” He paused to clear his throat. “I will personally see to your safety while we travel.”

She had gone very still as he spoke, her features even more pale. When he finished, she bit her lip as if considering. Finally, she gave the barest shake of her head.

“Two weeks would hardly be enough time to prepare for a trip of this sort.”

Morgan did a quick calculation in his head. The supplier in Liverpool needed the tobacco by early October. It was now late July. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose I could push the date back a bit if you needed more time.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

He grimaced. “My crew would likely be grateful. I’ve pushed them hard these last few months. We’ve scarce had any time in port. The respite will do them good.”

Though perhaps not his pocketbook. He’d pushed the crew because he’d hoped to stash enough in his savings to purchase a small farm outside of Dublin, but what use was that? It wasn’t as if he could work the land anytime soon. If he were honest, maybe not ever.

He lifted an inquiring eyebrow to Miss McGrath, after which she gave another, more definite shake of her head.

“I appreciate the offer, Captain, but my home is in New York now, and my plans . . .” She lifted her chin and spoke with as much confidence as he’d yet to hear from her. “I volunteer at a church shelter nearby. It has taught me to see beyond my own needs. As long as I can be of service, of some sort of use . . .” Silence seized her as a rosy flush bloomed on her cheeks. “Forgive me. I do not make it a custom to speak so liberally.” She got up from her chair and held out her hand.
“My thanks to you for your visit. Please give my regards to your mother when next you see her, and tell her I appreciate her asking after me.”

Regret rippled through him. Despite himself, he’d begun to envision her aboard the
Caitriona Marie
, only this time without the weight of sorrow stooping her shoulders.

Morgan loosed the grip of befuddlement with a toss of his head. Rising, he clasped her outstretched hand. “I’ll do that.”

“And while I am grateful for your offer of transport back to Ireland, I’m afraid I kinna accept,” she continued, sliding her hand out from his too quickly.

He gave another slight nod before turning to go. “Of course. I understand, and I wish you well.”

For the first time since he’d arrived, a genuine smile tipped her lips.

“Thank you,” she said. “God never closes one door but He opens another.”

Morgan froze. Oft he’d heard the same words spoken by his mother, but never had they struck him with such conviction. Indeed, Miss McGrath looked as surprised as he at the words that had slipped from her mouth. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that saying.”

She nodded and clasped her hands before her. “Must have been the talk of returning to Ireland what stirred up them old words.”

“I suppose so.” Donning his cap, he placed a touch to the brim. “It was a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you, as well, Captain.”

She waited for him to go, and still he hesitated, his insides jumping. “Miss McGrath?”

“Aye, Captain?”

“You will call upon me if ever you have need of anything?”

She looked confused for a moment, and then she nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

Move. Now.
He forced his feet to shuffle forward. “All right, then. I’ll show myself out.”

He exited the parlor and made for the front door. The strange mix of emotions he felt where Tillie McGrath was concerned was a mystery, and no doubt. Unfortunately, despite his apparent freedom from obligation toward her, he was no less troubled than before he’d paid her a visit, and no more certain in which direction he should proceed.