Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (7 page)

Tillie marveled as his bronzed skin reddened under the praise. Shyness from a ship’s captain? What other surprises were there to know about this man?

She tamped the thought a second after it rose. Ruined as she was by the choices she’d made, she had no business learning anything about any man, but particularly not one as handsome and noble as he.

She slid back from the table, and this time she didn’t
hesitate as she made her excuse to Amelia and then hurried to the hall.

Work and the shelter—those two things alone would she allow to occupy her thoughts. And the captain?

He, she told herself as she tossed her shawl about her shoulders, would be difficult to avoid, seeing as how he’d be staying at the boardinghouse while the repairs to their ship were being tended.

Pressing her lips together firmly, she stepped out onto the street and closed the door behind her. ’Twould be difficult, but that did not mean she didn’t intend to try.

Donal was right—the morgue
was
a foul place.

Morgan stifled a wave of distaste as he ducked through the outer doors and into Steven Ramsey’s cramped office. Despite his height, the man looked small hunkered behind an enormous desk. Great ledgers filled the shelves above his head. Papers spilled from the open cabinets onto his desk, where, on one corner, a molding crust of bread and cheese drew flies. How did the fellow work in such a mess?

Morgan sidestepped a pile of boxes stacked haphazardly on the floor. “So you say this cousin, this James Finch, came by to collect the doctor’s remains this morning?”

Ramsey gave a little shrug. “That’s what I said.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have business with him?”

Business? Aye. Like finding out who Doc’s enemies were, and the kind of people with whom he associated. “A bit,” he replied.

Ramsey’s brows bunched into a dark line. He patted the stacks of paper and receipts scattered along the desktop. “I do think I have his address around here somewhere, though it could take me a moment to find it, I’m afraid.”

A process that could no doubt be hurried along with a coin
from Morgan’s pocket. He gritted his teeth as he withdrew a piece of silver and dropped it on the desk.

“Ah, here it is.” Ramsey hoisted a soiled scrap of paper and waved it under Morgan’s nose. “Knew I’d find it sooner or later.”

The man’s scrawny shoulders hunched as Morgan snatched the address from his fingers. Morgan pointed to the street name. “Mangham. Where is that?”

“Upper East Side. Near Lexington.”

The name meant nothing to him. The address memorized, Morgan returned the paper to Ramsey. “Any idea how far?”

“Well . . .” Ramsey scratched his head and stared at the ceiling as if thinking.

Sighing, Morgan retrieved another dollar from his pocket and flipped it into Ramsey’s waiting palm.

“Not far. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes by carriage.”

A moment later, Morgan exited the morgue, glad to be shed of the place and even more so its proprietor.

Outside, the day had turned sticky and hot. For a split second he longed for the ocean’s cool breezes and expansive rolling waves, especially when after just a few steps he found himself jostled along the teeming street.

He shuddered and sidestepped onto the walk. Why people would choose to live packed together like rats was beyond him. Giving a sharp whistle he hailed a carriage and recited the address to the driver before climbing inside.

Unlike Ashberry Street, or even Woodrow Boulevard, where Ramsey the undertaker conducted business, Mangham Street was a collection of tidy row houses with small patches of neatly kept yards. They rolled past, door after painted door, until finally rumbling to a stop outside a particularly narrow structure with tall windows that stretched upward on both the second and third floors.

“Here you are, sir,” the driver called, “2416 Mangham Street.”

The carriage pitched as Morgan climbed down and circled to the front. He held up a dollar. This trip was getting expensive. “Can you wait here?”

The driver’s eyes gleamed. “Aye, sir. For another coin I can wait.”

Grunting, Morgan tossed him the money and then strode through a wrought-iron gate, up a bricked path to a set of broad steps. At the top, a great oak door with leaded-glass sidelights and matching fanlight beckoned. He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall once, twice, then stood back to wait. After a moment, a black-coated butler swung open the door.

“May I help you?”

He had no card to present. Morgan merely gave his name and explained the purpose of his visit.

The butler’s stoic expression remained fixed as he listened. “If you will follow me, I will see if Mr. Finch is available.” He indicated a wide hallway with polished wood floors and strategically positioned benches. A hall tree with curved arms supported a variety of hats and coats. The butler motioned to Morgan’s cap, which he relinquished with an inward sigh. “I’ll be back shortly,” the butler said before depositing the cap on the hall tree and disappearing up a flight of stairs.

The home of James Finch was understated but impressive, with curtains that pooled on the floor at every window, and gleaming silver frames that boasted photos of a large family on every table. Farther down the hall, a striped settee invited guests to linger. Mrs. Finch was indeed a woman of refined taste.

Like Moira.

He clenched his jaw as he turned toward a painted mural brightening one wall. The work had taken talent, he decided,
with its many swirling patterns and shaded planes. He moved closer for further study just as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him.

James Finch was a short older man with thinning hair that grayed at the temples. He balanced a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and his mustache twitched as he approached Morgan with his hand extended.

“Captain Morgan?”

Morgan clasped the hand Mr. Finch offered and was pleasantly surprised to receive not a flaccid shake but one purposeful and firm. He instantly liked the good doctor’s cousin. “You must be James Finch.”

He nodded, waving toward a small parlor. “John is bringing tea. I hope that is all right?”

His brow lifted in question, which Morgan answered with a subtle shake of his head. This was no social call.

“Then perhaps our business would be better conducted in the library,” Mr. Finch said as he led the way past the parlor and dining room. Once again, the room they entered was designed with care and taste. Elaborately carved bookcases held row upon row of leather-bound books. Opposite the door stood a large marble fireplace, and just inside was a table bearing a vase of flowers and the family Bible. Beyond that were a desk and two large chairs, which was where Mr. Finch led them.

“My butler tells me we may have some unfinished business regarding my cousin.” He waited until Morgan claimed one of the chairs before seating himself in the other. “I don’t understand. I thought everything was accomplished earlier today at the morgue.”

He withdrew a box of cigars from a desk drawer and offered one to Morgan, who declined.

“As far as his burial is concerned, you are correct. Our business is most definitely concluded,” Morgan said. “I’m
afraid I’ve come on another matter, equally as unpleasant, but indeed quite vital.”

Mr. Finch lit his cigar, filling the room with the scent of tobacco and cherry, and motioned for Morgan to continue.

“Sir, how well did you know your cousin?” Morgan began, trying discreetly to gauge the man’s reaction.

Mr. Finch’s face disappeared behind a smoky cloud, but through the haze Morgan saw his eyes narrow.

“Being near in age,” he said with a wave of the cigar, “we were quite close growing up. That changed as we grew older, I’m afraid, after Lionel took up the medical profession. His travels took him far from home, as I’m sure you are aware.”

Lionel.
Morgan was startled to realize that he’d only ever known him as Doc. He cleared his throat. “But before that, would you say you knew him well? His friends? The people he associated with?”

Mr. Finch said nothing. After a moment he laid the cigar in a marbled tray and folded both hands atop the desk. “This is perhaps an odd line of questioning, Captain Morgan.”

Indeed it was, and Morgan felt ill at ease with the task he’d undertaken. Comfortable or not, however, uncovering the man who’d paid to have someone end Braedon McKillop’s life had fallen to him. He pushed forward in the chair. “I’m afraid I have some rather shocking news,” he said, clipping his words so that they rattled like stones in the quiet room.

Mr. Finch neither wavered nor blinked beneath Morgan’s hard stare. “Go on.”

Rather than mince the truth, Morgan let the words fly like a lash. “It has come to my attention that your cousin accepted payment in exchange for poisoning a passenger aboard my ship. I want to know why and who it was that paid him.”

There. It was said. He waited while Finch processed what he’d heard.

The man sighed heavily. “How long ago?”

Morgan gripped the arms of his chair. That was it? The question with which he’d responded showed no doubt. No outrage. “Almost two years.”

Again he waited.

“Just after Josephine and Oleta took ill.” Finch’s lips turned down in a frown.

“Beg your pardon?” Morgan said. “Who?”

“His wife and daughter. You didn’t know he had a family?”

“To my shame, I did not.”

The frown lifted from Finch’s face, and he dismissed Morgan’s words with a wave. “Do not berate yourself, Captain. I’m not surprised that Lionel never told you about them. His wife was colored, and the child did not belong to him. Lionel met them while practicing in a small town outside of Atlanta.” He picked up the cigar and resumed puffing. “Though there was never any doubt that he cared for them, we all thought it was a matter of charity that he brought them to New York and gave them a place to live. When he married Oleta, however . . .” He directed a stare at Morgan. “Well, let’s just say there were some in our family who did not approve.”

Irritation raced through Morgan’s veins. “And when the woman and her daughter took ill, you didn’t offer to help.”

“Condemnation, Captain?” The two looked eye to eye until finally Finch directed his eyes upward, thinking. “Yes, I suppose the sentiment would be warranted, though at the time our concern was for the family. We never guessed the kind of straits Lionel was in. He . . . he became quite desperate.”

“Desperate enough to kill a man?”

While he didn’t say it aloud, guilt and grief twisted Finch’s features. “I think, Captain, that you already know the answer to that.”

Perhaps he did. Pity filled him, as did remorse, that he’d not known Doc better. And the crewmen who still lived? How well did he know them? He thought of Bozey, who’d joined the crew of the
Marie
almost three years ago, and then trickled over the rest of them, settling at last on Donal.

“Any idea who might have known about Doc’s circumstances and used the information to bribe him?”

Finch’s shoulders rose. “He wasn’t shy about seeking odd jobs in order to raise enough money to move his family out of the city and into a warmer climate. I suspect it could have been any number of people. Although . . .” He tapped the desk with his forefinger. “There was a man, Irish, I think, who spoke to him concerning a job. It was right about the time he went to work for you, if I remember correctly. We were all surprised that he would consider leaving his wife and the child to become a ship’s doctor.”

Morgan dug through his memory, searching the days and weeks surrounding the period when he’d been without a doctor. Just before leaving New York to return to Dublin, Doc had approached him saying he’d heard Morgan was looking.

He gave himself a mental shake. Impossible. It wasn’t until the next voyage to America that Braedon McKillop had come aboard the
Caitriona Marie
as a passenger. How could Doc—or anyone—have known? Unless . . .

McKillop’s coming hadn’t been by accident.

He clenched his jaw, a blast of anger rushing through him at the thought that someone would use his ship to accomplish their sinister purpose. A second later, reason replaced the anger.

Composing himself, he stood, shook Finch’s hand, and thanked him for his time. After informing him of the address of the boardinghouse and how long he’d be staying, he asked him to kindly get in touch should he remember anything he thought would be helpful, and then he left.

Free to reflect on what he’d learned once he left Finch’s home, Morgan scowled and hurried his steps toward Ashberry Street and Cass.

If what Finch had told him was correct, if someone had paid Doc to take a job on the
Caitriona Marie
, then somehow convinced McKillop to board the ship for America, the plot, and the danger to him, Tillie, and his brother, was far greater than he imagined.

Business at the millinery hastened now that Tillie had accepted the position Mrs. Ferguson offered. Having received Sister Agnes’s blessing, and Sister Mary’s hearty approval to boot, she’d been happy to inform Mrs. Ferguson of her answer and begin with her new responsibilities.

She lowered the wick on an oil lamp until it went out, then carefully set it aside and stooped to remove her reticule from a cubby beneath her worktable. The shop was quiet now that the last customer had left and all the employees had gone home. Only she and Mrs. Ferguson remained, the latter approaching with a jingle as she held her keys aloft.

“So, my dear, what did you think of your first day?”

Tillie gave her tired eyes a rub. The stress to her fingers had been far less, but her mind was far more fatigued than on a normal workday—as was her back from bending over the table as she’d examined the orders being prepared for delivery. “I never realized how many ventures we had going at once.”

Mrs. Ferguson chuckled merrily. “Just wait. The summer season is almost over, but come fall, when people submit their orders for the holidays and Christmas, we’ll see our numbers double.”

Tillie shook her head. “How have you managed it on your own all this time?”

Separating one of the keys from the ring in her hand, she shrugged. “I had little choice after Mr. Ferguson passed away, but things are different now. Business is better, and I can afford the extra help. Good thing.” She patted her graying hair. “The pace of running this place is rapidly becoming too much for this old lady.”

Tillie smiled. Mrs. Ferguson’s advancing years had proven to be good fortune for her. “I’m glad I can help.” She motioned toward the windows, which had been propped open to allow a breeze while the women worked. “Shall I help you lock up?”

Mrs. Ferguson turned the key in the front door lock. “That would be nice, dear. Thank you.”

Once the shop was snugged for the night, Tillie bid Mrs. Ferguson farewell and turned her steps toward the boardinghouse. It was odd to be going home at this time of the evening with the sun already dipping behind the tall buildings, causing long shadows to stretch over the sidewalks. In the distance, a woman’s voice echoed as she called her children to dinner. Tillie knotted the strings of her bonnet and set off down the street. Come winter, it would be dark by the time she quit the shop and made for home.

But not now. Now she could enjoy the cooler air that made strolling a pleasure. Perhaps she could even explore a couple of the fruit-vendor carts that lined Ashberry Street on her way home, pick out a nice melon that Laverne could add to their supper.

She smiled, picturing the woman’s delight, and just as quickly wiped it away when a prickling at the nape of her neck slowed her steps. She paused and turned to look. The streets were not crowded this time of day, though there were still plenty of pedestrians bustling to and fro to make her
wonder what it was that made her wary. Biting her lip, she continued on her way, relieved when she spotted a melon cart not far from the boardinghouse.

“Good evening, miss,” the owner said, tipping his cap. “Something I can help ya with?”

Again the prickling. Tillie cast a glance over her shoulder at the thinning crowd, then back at the proprietor. Though she couldn’t explain it, longing to be back within the safety of the boardinghouse walls filled her. “No . . . I suppose not.”

“That one looks nice.”

Tillie startled at the voice at her elbow. Cass Morgan stared down at her, a rakish grin fixed to his lips.

Tillie shifted the reticule to her wrist as she dipped in greeting. “Mr. Morgan, you surprised me.”

He held up his hand. “Just Cass. Morgan is my brother.”

As if he might materialize, she looked past Cass to the street.

“I’m alone. Thought I’d do a bit of exploring before supper. Never expected to run into you.”

Why then did his speech sound so hasty to her ears? Was he the reason she’d felt such unease?

Cass motioned to the cart and its selection of fruit. “What about that one?”

She followed his gaze to a large watermelon.

“I can carry it for you, if you like. We be going the same way, after all.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Well?”

She checked the dwindling passersby on the street one last time, looked back at his smiling carefree face, then swallowed and nodded. Whatever had caused her discomfort, it wasn’t him. “Aye. That would be fine.”

She reached for the strings on her reticule, but before she could unfasten the bow, he plucked a coin from his pocket,
dropped it into the vendor’s waiting palm, and hoisted the watermelon to his shoulder.

“Here’s hoping this one is as good inside as it looks out.” He thumped the end with his thumb. “I don’t have the same touch for picking the sweet ones as Morgan does.” He started toward the sidewalk. “Ready?”

Tillie set off again, preceding him down the street. “So, Captain Morgan has a hand for gardening?”

“When he’s not figuring out how to save our family.” Cass swung into step beside her, one hand bracing the watermelon, the other held out from his body, elbow extended to her. She accepted the proffered arm and rested her fingers lightly against his forearm. Though he was of slighter build than his older brother, there was no doubting his form. The taut muscles beneath her touch ignited a memory she’d thought long buried.

Braedon’s gentle smile, his hand reaching to her, the feel of his strong arms gripping her waist as he helped her to rise.

“
Come, lass. Let me help you up
.”

She shook her head, dislodging the recollection and the flood of emotions that accompanied it. “You were out exploring the city?” She croaked the words from a dry throat.

His attention slid from her to the street ahead. “Aye. I’ve not been to New York before. Morgan has, of course, but not me. ’Tis a fascinating place. Did you know the city was once the nation’s capital?”

“It was?”

“Briefly. From 1785 to 1790.” He paused. “Is it true they’re thinking of dividing New York into boroughs? I’ve heard talk of it around the city.”

She’d heard the same rumors. “Aye, there’s been talk of it. True or not remains to be seen.”

He continued chatting, but to Tillie’s thinking it was more
a way of keeping her from asking questions than to entertain. Why she should feel so, she couldn’t explain.

The boardinghouse lay just ahead. “I’ll be glad to get home and rest my legs. Too much standing at the millinery made for a long day.”

Cass glanced sidelong at her. “Do you always work so late?”

“Not usually. I’ve a new position with Mrs. Ferguson, helping her manage the orders and such. It’s more pay, but it will mean later hours.”

“It doesn’t bother you walking home alone?”

Under normal circumstances she’d have answered no, but today the unease she’d felt earlier crept back on tenacious fingers. “Let’s go inside, shall we? Laverne will be most pleased to see what we’ve brought home.”

She led the way up the boardinghouse steps and held the door wide for Cass to pass through. Very wide. His broad shoulders took up nearly the entire frame. What was it about these Morgan men that made them so very large?

Cass patted the watermelon on his shoulder. “To the kitchen?”

“Aye. That way,” Tillie said, pointing down the hall to a door that opened off the end. “Can’t wait to see Laverne’s face. It’s her favorite.”

Indeed, upon catching sight of the large watermelon, Laverne welcomed them with a smile. “We’ll have our fill of the canned fruits once the cold months set in,” she joked, patting a spot on the counter and then bending to take a long whiff of the fruity rind. Rising, she gave a satisfied smile. “That’s a good one, and no doubt.”

“You can tell by smelling it?” Cass’s brow crinkled. “How? What’s the difference?”

Laverne’s eyes twinkled. “The good ones always have a sweet aroma about them.”

Cass cocked his head and grinned. “Ma used to say the same thing about men.” He leaned toward Tillie. “What do you think, lass? Am I sweet?”

“Enough, Cass.” The low voice startled them all. Tall and glowering, Captain Morgan made a formidable figure lingering in the doorway. He beckoned to Cass with one finger, then nodded to Tillie and Laverne. “Cass, the library, if you please. Ladies.”

He bowed before exiting, leaving Tillie to wonder about his sour appearance.

“As different as night and day, those two,” Laverne said, giving voice to the thought hammering in Tillie’s head. She grabbed a long knife and plunged it into the melon rind, releasing an aroma as sweet as she’d predicted. “One of them without a care in the world, and the other with all the world’s cares.” She clucked her tongue as she sliced the end off the melon and set it aside. “One would think a gal could find a man with the right balance of both.”

Lowering her eyes, Tillie grabbed a bowl and carried it to Laverne to receive the slices of fresh fruit.

She had found such a man. Braedon. Only she’d lost him. And ever since then she’d doubted she would ever be content with anyone else.

Worse still, she doubted anyone else would ever be content with her.