Jo Goodman (4 page)

But it would be worth it just to see her face.

* * *

A crowd had begun to gather on the dock behind Jonna. As word spread that she was on the waterfront, and as the reason for her early morning outing became common knowledge, work in the busy harbor slowed. Wagons moving from ships to warehouses crawled along the dock now as the drivers, taking advantage of their high perches, looked out over the water for a first glimpse of
Huntress.

It said something about Jonna Remington's reputation that men found their eyes trying to pierce the thick wall of fog for the curve of the horizon. There was no way the owner of the Remington line could be certain her ship would appear in the next hour or the next day, but the fact that she was waiting told others she expected it to be sooner than later. The timetable, they knew, was one Jonna kept in her head, along with a plethora of other facts and figures, of debits and credits, of manifests and maritime laws. Not a man working the harbor that morning doubted that Jonna Remington had plotted her flagship's course and anticipated the vessel's arrival within the accuracy of a heartbeat. In a business that was fraught with risk, things that could be plotted and planned were never left to chance.

Jonna turned only once to survey the gathering at her back. They were careful to keep their distance, a sign of their respect but also an acknowledgment of Jonna's natural aloofness. She was not unapproachable but neither was she casually available. Her mien was sober and steady, even dispassionate, and her manner was straightforward. She worked hard and she expected others to do the same. She never said as much; it was there by example. Men in her employ who did not understand that were quickly given their leave. Jonna Remington did not suffer fools in any fashion.

Her brief study of the crowd had laid a blanket of silence over it. To a man they felt they were shirking their duty by waiting for
Huntress.
This guilt didn't move them to go back to their work, but they were aware of their discomfort now where they hadn't been a moment before. A few of them, in a paltry show of defiance, stared back hard at her. If she knew they were doing it, she remained unmoved.

Another biting breeze swept over the dock. Jonna felt her bonnet lift again, and the purple satin bow caught her under the neck. This time she unfastened the ribbon rather than hold the hat to her head. The wind tore at the bonnet as soon as it was loosened, and Jonna barely managed to keep it in hand. She held it in front of her, letting the salt spray sting her unprotected face and whip at her hair.

She had had no patience with having her hair dressed that morning. Instead of fashionable ringlets, she'd told the maid to simply tie it back and tuck it into a bun. The wind made short work of the maid's efforts. The anchoring pins lost their moorings as glossy black tendrils slipped free. Jonna's hair unfurled and was beaten back. In moments it came to define the invisible currents of air that lifted it behind her.

Jonna had an urge to glance over her shoulder. Had anyone noticed, or were the men still watching for the ship? With an uncharacteristic consideration of feminine vanity she wondered which of the two possibilities would be more insulting. She quelled the impulse to look around and clutched her bonnet tighter.

It wasn't that she was unused to being stared at. She was. But it had been her experience that it was for reasons not to be regarded as truly flattering. The first thing that usually struck people was her height. At just three inches under six feet she was taller than all the women of her acquaintance and stood eye to eye with most men. If her height went unremarked—and truly, she thought, why did people think they had the right to make some comment on it, or more to the point, think that she should accept their observations graciously—then something was said about her eyes.

Why, they're purple, my dear. How very unusual.
Actually they were violet, but when someone was visibly caught off guard by the odd coloring, "purple" was the word that came quickly to mind and was voiced. To make it more maddening, her eyes seemed too large for her face and did not remain a constant hue but captured shades of blue and gray depending on the predominant colors of her costume. Until she had removed her bonnet and its purple ribbon, Jonna had been assured her eyes would remain violet. Not that it was a matter of great importance to her. She only had to look out of her eyes, not into them. For that she was grateful.

Jonna raised one arm to shield them now. Behind the fog the sun was burning brightly. The light was diffused throughout the gray mist, the effect almost blinding. She waited for the sun to break through. She was selfish enough to want the sighting of her flagship to be unfettered by the low-lying clouds.

Soon, she thought, let it be soon.

* * *

Huntress
rolled through a bank of fog and into a clearing. She rode the crest of each wave smoothly as the wind swelled her sails. Like an albatross with great white wings spread,
Huntress
seemed to take flight just above the surface of the water, moving forward in defiance of the laws of nature that commanded friction and gravity. Her swift progress brought a rush of pride to the men who labored in her yardarms and on her decks.

"Land Ho!"

It was the cry they had all been waiting for. Twenty pairs of eyes, all of them unaided by a telescope, strained to see what the one man with a spyglass could. It was two long minutes before they saw the same New England shoreline. The cheer that went up was deafening, and in that moment the swell of voices seemed to add substance to the burgeoning sails.

The spyglass was passed to Decker, but he handed it to Jack before he looked himself. He ran a hand through his dark, wind-ruffled hair. His mouth was set in a quirky, yet somehow rueful grin. "Tell me if you can see her," he told Jack.

Jack Quincy raised the telescope. He knew Decker wasn't talking about the coastline in general. His reference, in spite of its lack of specificity, was to Jonna Remington. The older man gave a bark of laughter as he pressed the 'scope to his eye. Another chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. "You're not afraid of her, are you?" he asked.

"Down to my toes," Decker admitted easily. His loose and relaxed posture didn't change, and there was nothing about his quietly amused expression to suggest he was telling the truth.

Jack dropped the spyglass a fraction, looked sharply at Decker, then raised it again. "Damn liar," he said. "Had me going there, just for a moment, mind you. Can't imagine why anyone would be afraid of Jonna. Just the same, I know it's true. She just doesn't warm up to people the way she did when she was a young'un. I never figured out whether she puts them off or t'other way around."

Decker didn't comment. He had his own thoughts on the matter, and he was determined they would remain just that—his own.

"She'll be as mad as my great-aunt Lottie," Jack said.

"Mad crazy?" asked Decker. "Or mad angry?"

"Lottie was both." Jack looked up, interested as Decker groaned softly. "Didn't I ever tell you about her?"

Decker took the spyglass. "No. And I'm not listening to one of your tales now."

Unperturbed, Jack went on. "Lottie would raise her fist at the sun if it got too hot to suit her, then strip down to her skin to get the better of it."

Decker raised a single dark brow and spared Jack a sideways glance.

Jack Quincy leaned his large frame on one crutch and crossed himself awkwardly. "I swear."

Raising the telescope, Decker said dryly, "No chance of that happening here." He had never seen Jonna Remington truly angry. He had seen her frustrated and flustered, aggravated and annoyed, but she invariably had some brake on her emotions that kept her anger in check. When he thought of it, he imagined she was more likely to go cold than hot. As for tearing off her clothes... he didn't think in that direction at all. The owner of the Remington line probably bathed in her shift.

Through the spyglass the coastline was rising in sharp relief on the horizon. Decker knew that with the last dregs of fog burned off by the sun
Huntress's
sails would reflect light like mirrors. If Jonna was waiting for them she would be sighting them soon.

* * *

Jonna raised herself on tiptoe. Nothing moved on the wharf now except men who craned their necks for a better view than they had had before. Wagons stopped. Cargoes were left unattended. The warehouses had emptied of their last workers minutes earlier. If the glimpse of gleaming white sail in the distance was indeed
Remington Huntress,
then history was being made.

She knew it was her ship before anyone else. Jonna had put down the design on paper, supervised the building, and toured every one of the decks. She had hired the men who worked on the ship from her inception to the day the vessel left the Remington shipyard north of Boston. From the coast road Jonna had followed the progress to the harbor on her short maiden outing, but it was in Boston Harbor that she had christened
Huntress
and set her free for her first true test.

Jonna Remington had done everything but sail on her. She never spoke of her regret in that regard. For years she had been a private person, but in this case it was less a desire to keep her thoughts to herself than it was that she had no one to tell. Her most trusted confidant, Jack Quincy, would not have understood her regret, not when the choice to stay on land was hers. Grant Sheridan, the man who was pressing his marriage proposal, would not have understood why she had felt a need to board her vessel. Privacy came with a price, she realized, because now there was no one who understood her.

Jonna pushed back this thought as she squinted against the sunlight. Yes, it was her ship.
Huntress.
She had given as much thought to the name as she had to the design of the cant frames and keel. This would be the last great clipper of the Remington line, and Jonna had wanted a swift and beautiful ship that would make its mark. She had thought of Diana, goddess of the hunt, as under her watchful eye the graceful curve of timber took shape.

Iron ships would follow soon. Jonna was sure of it. They were lumbering floaters of iron and wood, hybrid hulks that burned coal and used sails only when the wind was high. They had no style or elegance of form, and worse, rather than working in concert with nature, they strove to overpower it.

Jonna's sound business sense meant that all of the Remington line would someday be powered by steam, but business did not dictate her passion. And her passion was the tall ships.

* * *

Aboard
Remington Huntress
the activity came about with such precision it appeared to be choreographed. Captain Thorne's orders were relayed quickly and sharply and carried out in much the same manner. Men climbed into the rigging to hoist the sails and make the wind's power ineffective. The great sharp-lined ship shuddered as her crew strove to take in the spread of canvas. It was as if she could not bear to be stripped of her finest adornments.

The shudder brought Decker shoulder to shoulder with Jack Quincy. Quincy had never seen the younger man lose his footing before, even in stormy conditions, and it was nothing like that today. There was a lightness in Decker's step, in his very
being,
that made Jack think his new captain couldn't stumble. In the next moment, when Decker was holding the telescope again, having stolen it away from Jack's belt, the old salt knew he'd been right. Decker Thorne didn't make a misstep unless it was intentional.

"How do you do that?" Jack growled. "Should I check my pockets for change?"

"Oh? Did you have any?" asked Decker. "I counted two bills but no coin."

Jack's laughter was like a cannon shot, explosive and loud. "I'll bet you did, too." He sobered momentarily. "Is it true you can remove a lady's corset while she's wearing her dress?"

Decker raised the spyglass. "What's the point in that? I'd still have to get the dress off. I've never been one for tossing up a woman's skirts. You shouldn't believe everything you hear about me, Jack. What isn't an outright lie isn't likely to be the whole truth."

Jack nodded. "Fair enough. But tell me how you got the scope without me feeling a thing."

Decker continued to scan the harbor. He could make out a crowd standing on the wharf but not the individuals in it. He shrugged. "Magic, Jack."

Not satisfied with that answer, Jack grunted.

"Some people call it sleight of hand," Decker said.

This time Jack snorted.

"Judges mostly call it stealing."

"That's the word I heard for it, too," said Jack. "Now give me back the 'scope."

"In a moment." They were close enough now that the spyglass brought Jonna Remington into focus. Decker smiled wryly to himself. Even though the arrival of her flagship was cause for celebration the chiseled face of an iceberg would have offered a warmer reception than this woman.

Her posture on the lip of the dock was the only thing that betrayed her eagerness, and that was an optimistic interpretation of her position. "I'll be damned," he said softly.

"What?" Jack demanded, sidling closer. "Give me that thing. What do you see?"

"She's not wearing a bonnet." He handed the telescope to Jack. "Miss Remington's hair is flying in the wind. Have a care, Jack. She may actually smile."

Jack Quincy had known Jonna Remington all of her young life. He had worked for her father, and at John's death had worked beside her until she reached her majority and took control of the company herself. Jack defended her now. "She was a wee thing when her mother passed on," he said. "And only fifteen when her father was lost to her. If she's serious about her responsibilities, then you should take heart. As her employee she considers you one of them."