Beloved Captive (34 page)

 
A smattering of claps grew into full-fledged applause when Micah joined Emilie at the front of the crowd. “Listen to your teacher,” he said, then smiled as the audience laughed. “I say, what can it hurt to try this?”

“Anyone got the address?” a woman up front asked.

“I do,” Emilie said. Before the night was done, she’d given that address out to every person in the schoolyard. When the mail cutter returned on the twenty-ninth of the month, it left the harbor the next day with more letters than had ever been posted from Fairweather Key.

And a large number of them were addressed to the secretary of the navy in Washington, D.C.

Chapter 36

October 3, 1836

Caleb had been quietly looking for familiar faces since his conversation with Micah Tate regarding the Benning name. Twice now Micah had reported items missing from the warehouse, things that went in but did not make the log book.
 

Any other man might have brought suspicion on himself with the claim, but Tate seemed to care not for the guilt he might appear to have. Rather, Caleb knew him to be honest above all other things. Thus, the claim was duly noted and a plan decided upon.

No longer would the warehouse go unguarded. Now a man would be stationed at either end of the building night and day, except during times when they were called to duty at sea. Then the fishermen would take over. All men answered to Micah Tate.
 

And Micah answered only to Caleb.

It was a plan that, while elaborate, seemed to work. There had been no further loss of cargo since its implementation.

The only other strange activity in town seemed to center around the mail cutter. When it departed the first week in September, the craft had been laden with a high volume of letters. The same thing happened each Monday of the month.

As judge, he wondered what sort of foolishness was going on. Why, did it seem that everyone in town had decided to write letters?

Even Mrs. O’Mara had remained silent on the subject and refused to allow him to inspect the cargo. When he’d arrived on the dock the last two times the vessel had dropped anchor, she not only refused him entry to the hold, but she had also ordered him off the vessel.

“You can have a peek at these items if we don’t make it past the reef,” she called. “If we do, then it’s none of your business.”

When they parted, she’d been humming some obscure verse from one of his mother’s favorite hymns. Caleb could only smile, even as he wondered what sort of trickery might be going on.

Today, however, he intended to get to the bottom of this, even if it meant throwing the former jailer in the brig. He adjusted his hat and stepped out of his office into the warmth of the October Monday morning.

Back in Washington, things were likely covered in ice. Perhaps even a dusting of snow. But here the sun shone and the skies were blue. Were he not so far from the place where the real work of justice went on, he might actually enjoy living in such a place.

With a nod to the pastor’s wife and her daughter-in-law, Caleb turned toward the docks where the mail cutter looked ready to depart. “Mrs. O’Mara,” he called as he spied the postmistress.

“Judge Spencer.” She waved. “Come on aboard,” she said, “unless you’re of a mind to raid the hold again.”

Caleb stopped short and weighed his options. He decided to try flattery. “Do I look like the kind of man who would interfere with the business of the mail system, especially with one so competent in charge?”

Resting her hands on her hips, Mrs. O’Mara shook her head. “Yes, actually, you do.”

So much for flattery. “Madam, I am the judge in Fairweather Key, and as such I demand you tell me exactly what is going on with all of this mail. If there’s a crime being committed and I am not informed,
I feel I should warn you that you will also be considered a party to
it.”

He paused to let the threat sink in. Whatever bite he’d put into the words seemed not to have caught her attention at all.
 

With nothing more than a grin and a wave, she bade him good-bye and stepped off the vessel. “You’ll need to go with her, Judge,” the captain called from the quarterdeck, “unless you’re interested in coming along.”

Caleb looked back at Mrs. O’Mara, then up at the captain. “Oh, I don’t know. Where are you going? Maybe I’ll ride along with all those letters you’re carrying.”

“Don’t you tell him, Captain,” the postmistress said. “He’s not authorized for that information.”

Shaking his head, Caleb headed down the gangplank and returned to dry land without his answers. As he neared Mrs. O’Mara, he paused. “Should I ever decide to leave my position as judge, I shall recommend you be named as my successor.”

“And I’ll accept. I’ve been running this island for years. The judge just didn’t know it.” The older woman laughed. “Isn’t that right, Miss Emilie?”

Miss Emilie?

He turned to see Emilie Gayarre gliding toward him in a frock of pale violet with a bonnet to match. “Mrs. O’Mara, how lovely to see you,” she said. “Judge,” she added as an afterthought.

“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Gayarre,” he said, though he’d only just had the distinct discomfort of sitting in the pew in front of her at Sunday services yesterday. All through Mrs. Carter’s solo and Reverend Carter’s sermon, he could feel her staring.
 

Afterward, he’d taken pains to speak at length with Mr. Benson at the auction house until she finally exited the church. How much longer he could continue to deal with the dual need to see her and stay away was beyond his understanding.

Something, it seemed, would have to change, and soon.

Still, he’d managed to deflect her questions until she stopped asking them. Perhaps after several more months passed, she would be amenable to a fresh start without the accusation that he was the Benning.

The complication in that plan was the fact that, indeed, she was correct.

“Well now,” Mrs. O’Mara said. “What’s gotten into you two?” She linked one arm with Emilie and the other with Caleb. “When I heard the talk that you two were slipping around having some sort of secret romance, I knew it couldn’t be true. Now I wonder.”

Stunned, Caleb attempted to step back, but her iron grip remained on his arm. Emilie’s face went beet red.

“Hear me out. Two people who don’t care a fig for one another are easy to spot. They don’t show an opinion as to whether the other’s around or not.” She paused to look first at Emilie and then at Caleb. “But you two, well, you’re like two long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs.”

She released her grip, and Caleb half-expected Emilie to bolt and run. On principle alone, he remained rooted in place.

“What you two need to do is stop dancing around each other and let the Lord do what He wants to do with you. Why, it’s as plain as day you’re meant for one another.” The older woman shook her head. “All I’ve got to say is youth is wasted on the young,” she said as she turned and walked away without looking back.
 

“Ridiculous,” Emilie said. “I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

Caleb said nothing. Indeed, the more he tried to work up irritation at the woman, the more he was reminded of Langham Island and the barefoot beauty who swam up to meet him during his nap.

Even yesterday in church, as he felt her eyes on him, Caleb wondered whether his jacket might have a spot of lint on it or if he’d missed a place on his jaw while shaving.

Emilie was right about one thing: It was ridiculous.

“Emilie?” Mrs. O’Mara was back, this time with a letter in hand. “Something for you from the mailbag.”

The former Miss Crusoe retrieved the letter, scanned the front, then quickly folded it in half and held it behind her back. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Mara,” she said. “Always lovely to see you.” She bustled away without so much as a parting word to Caleb.

“See,” Mrs. O’Mara said, “she’s got it bad for you.”

Caleb laughed as he watched the haughty female hurry out of sight. “For someone who claims to know people, you’ve missed the mark on that one.”

Postmistress O’Mara reached to grasp Caleb by the arm. “Ah, but she didn’t miss the mark, did she, Judge Spencer?”

Caleb thought back to that morning aboard the
Cormorant,
then
smiled down at the older woman. “Thankfully, Mrs. O’Mara, she
did.”

He returned to his office and a desk full of newly delivered mail. There were also two men with familiar faces sorting through the documents.

Caleb reached for the pistol at his waist and aimed it at the bigger of the pair. “I can only shoot one of you at a time, but I can certainly take you both.”

Two sets of hands shot up, and they stepped away from the desk like errant schoolchildren. “There’s no need for that,” said the shorter man, a fellow with close-cropped hair and a distinctly French accent. “We are all on the same side here.”

Caleb stilled his trigger finger but never removed his attention from the men. “Who are you?”
 

“Actually,” the man said as he gave his partner in crime a sideways look, “Mr. Fletcher sent us to find Monsieur Benning.”

Caleb’s finger tightened against the trigger as the blood pulsed in his temples.

The bigger of the pair, a buffoon with a scar that traveled from the corner of his mouth to his hairline, said nothing. It occurred to Caleb that he could dispatch both men and solve the problem.

 
The door opened behind him. “A word with you, Judge Spencer,” Emilie Gayarre said.

Caleb dared not look at her. “Not now, miss,” he said.

The men exchanged glances. Caleb lifted the weapon to aim, being careful to keep it out of Emilie’s sight.
 

“Yes, now,” she said. “This won’t wait.”

Caleb resisted the urge to turn and look at her. Rather, he slid one hand behind his back and pointed to the door. “Go,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Now.” As an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

Of course she ignored him. With each footstep in his direction, Caleb’s temper rose.
 

Emilie came into view, a puzzled look on her face. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Madam, I will ask you again to leave the office.”

A smirk rose on the smaller man’s face. “Well then,” the Frenchman said, “we will be going. He inched away from the desk, his companion following a step behind.

“
Parlez-vous Francais
?” Emilie asked.

“
Oui
,” the man responded, and the pair began conversing. The door closed, and just as Emilie came around to stand beside him, Caleb lowered the weapon to his side. His expression, however, told the men he would use the pistol if provoked.
 

* * *

To Emilie’s mind, Judge Spencer appeared even more grumpy than usual. In contrast, his guests were both hospitable and refined. The gentleman from Lyon was especially nice, even asking questions about the island in general and Emilie’s home in particular. It seemed he had been giving thought to settling in Fairweather Key and finding employment along with two former partners in a shipping venture.
 

She was about to tell the judge this when the men bade a quick good-bye and slipped past. The French fellow offered a curt nod to the judge, then a broad smile to Emilie. His friend merely grinned over his shoulder as he exited a few steps behind.

When they were gone, the judge walked over to the desk to make order of what was an awful mess. Snatching up an envelope with an important-looking seal that looked eerily similar to the one she’d opened a short while ago, he looked up at Emilie. “Would you excuse me one minute?”

“Of course.” As she planned to stay until her business was conducted, Emilie found the nearest chair and settled there, arranging her skirts around her ankles and pulling off her gloves.

The letter seemed to remove all thought of company from Judge Spencer’s mind, so Emilie was free to study him undetected. A vast physical improvement had happened since their day on Langham Island, most markedly in the cut of his hair and the clean-shaven condition of his chin. The smiles that came so easily that day, however, had not been appreciated.

Would that she could recall them, for his expression stood in stark contrast. “Something amiss, Judge?” she called, though it appeared her question had not pierced the thick veil of his thoughts.

No matter, for she had her own concerns. Once the contents of her letter were known, likely the former pirate would have no need of his grin for a long time.

Abruptly, the subject of her thoughts looked up. He appeared to be forming a statement or, perhaps, a question. Failing that, he set the paper atop the collection on his desk and merely stared.

Too young and handsome to be judge and jury of anything—that was her thought as she watched him rest against the edge of the desk and study the toe of his boot. She took the opportunity to notice the breadth of his shoulders and to wonder where the bullet had entered. Surely a lesser man would have died. So much blood. Eyes staring up from a place where no recognition could be had. Voices outside, shouting. Bells ringing. A man with a pipe.

The recall made her shiver, even as it rendered her unable to look away. When the lieutenant’s gaze lifted, he caught her staring.

“Indeed you look troubled,” she said to cover her discomfort. “Might you need some cheering? Perhaps a day in the sun on some tropical island would soothe your temperament.”

“Should you continue to make reference to some sort of past experience you believe we had, I shall be forced to rethink my decision to allow a school to be built once the proper location can be secured.”

“Interesting, Judge Spencer,” she said as she rose, her confidence soaring. “For I did not mention this island might figure into some sort of shared past experience. Only the Benning would know of our day on Langham Island. Only the Benning would. . .”
 

Realization dawned even as she watched the color drain from the judge’s face. “Did you say you were going to allow the school to be built?”