Love's Rescue (13 page)

Rourke spotted the same falsehoods in Littlejohn’s testimony.
Benjamin must have bribed everyone to lie. Standing against that, Rourke had only a colored man, a loyal crew that most considered derelicts, and the newcomer Worthington. No judge would weigh those testimonies against the ones Benjamin had accumulated and rule in Rourke’s favor.

Rourke handed back the depositions. “Why don’t you give these to the judge and be done with it?”

“I’m not cruel, Captain. I would never deny a man his living. Moreover, you have been kind to my son.”

Rourke set his jaw. “I’m listening.”

“I’m glad to see you’re a reasonable man. It’s quite simple. You can stay to face the inevitable consequences, or you can exchange that verdict for one highly palatable task.”

“Which is?” Rourke wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Visit your mother. Help her at home. Ensure she is faring well, and confine your wrecking to Bahamian waters.”

“You know as well as I that far fewer ships wreck on the Bahama Bank than in Florida waters. I’ll never be able to provide for my family from Bahamian waters alone.”

“There are always turtling and fishing.”

“A man can’t live off turtling and fishing. He certainly can’t support a large family.” That was why Rourke brought much of his earnings to his mother on his annual visits. His father had barely eked out an existence. His brothers tried to provide. Fish was plentiful, but without Rourke’s money, they could not afford clothing, candles, or repairs to the boat. No, he couldn’t resort to fishing.

“I’m not asking you to stay there forever,” Benjamin added.

Something turned over inside Rourke. “How long?”

That viperous smile returned. “One year. That’s all. Is one year too much to ask of a loving, responsible son?”

One year? Rourke struggled to steady his breathing. In one year, Elizabeth could be married. Probably would be if her attentions to Benjamin’s clerk last night were any indication. Still, if her father was willing to bargain, then she must harbor some affection for Rourke. Hope trickled in.

“When must I leave?”

Benjamin licked his lips. “As soon as possible.”

Rourke calculated the days until the Harvest Ball. He couldn’t pick the exact date in case of adverse weather. He must give enough leeway for a second attempt. “I will need two weeks to prepare the ship and round up a new crew. Most won’t want to stay in the Bahamas a full year.”

“Understood.” Benjamin nodded. “You’re doing the right thing.”

The right thing? What did Charles Benjamin know about doing right? He twisted the law to suit his client. He used fear to lord over his servants. Selling Anabelle’s mother had been a warning. Both John and Anabelle knew it. Rourke had just one chance to save her. Fail, and Benjamin would tear them apart forever.

Rourke despised such men. As a youth he’d been hot-tempered and prone to settle disputes with his fists. The Lord had changed him. At this moment, though, Rourke wanted to lash out at Charles Benjamin.

He must not.

Breathe deep. One. Two. Three. Lord Jesus, help me turn
the other cheek.
Help me to do unto others as
I would have them do unto me.

How could he turn his cheek on injustice? Though John bore the scars of slavery, Anabelle was still bound to a master, when she ought to be bound to her husband.

Rourke unclenched his fists. If he pursued Elizabeth, Anabelle would remain Benjamin’s property. His promise to John would be broken. He must agree to Benjamin’s proposition.

He would not, however, shake the man’s hand. Charles Benjamin must take him at his word.

“I accept.”

A simple nod sealed the agreement.

E
lizabeth cradled the miniature of her mother in her palm, restless and unable to sleep after yet another unsatisfying day. At breakfast, Aunt Virginia had insisted they go through Mother’s bedroom and pack away her belongings. Elizabeth could not bear to see the room where her mother had died so recently. She certainly didn’t want to hide away every trace of her mama. She had dug in her heels until Aunt relented.

Later that morning, the wife of the Army detachment’s commander paid a visit and happened to run her gloved finger across a tabletop. Aunt Virginia was mortified that the woman’s glove had turned black. Elizabeth had explained that the dark coral dust was in the air and couldn’t be avoided, but Aunt refused to believe her. Instead, Elizabeth received another scolding over her lax treatment of the servants. She’d been forced to punish Florie by making her scrub the privies, a duty that Nathan ordinarily handled.

Tonight, Anabelle had been unusually silent while preparing Elizabeth for bed.

“Are you angry over my treatment of Florie?” Elizabeth had finally asked.

“No, miss.” The curt answer revealed Anabelle’s true feelings.

“I must maintain order.” Elizabeth hated that her words sounded like her aunt’s, but it was the only explanation she could give. “As mistress of the house, I am responsible to ensure the household runs smoothly.”

“Yes, miss.”

Anabelle could not have delivered a more stinging rebuke. The chasm between them widened, and not another word had been spoken until she curtseyed and left.

Now the silence wrapped around Elizabeth like a blanket. She set the miniature in her keepsake chest and returned to the window. The quiet ought to bring peace, but the most vexing thought of all wove through Elizabeth. Rourke had not paid another call. Though his first visit had been cut short by her aunt’s return, she thought it had gone well. He had acted as if he too felt the connection between them. He’d even remembered how much she loved her mama’s oleanders. Anger rose at the memory of her aunt tossing the bloom out the window.

Her family might disapprove of Rourke, but he was not one to let other people’s objections keep him away. He apparently visited Charlie often, though he had not kept his promise to return the following day. What had kept him away?

She nibbled her lower lip.

The claim of theft ought to have been dropped now that Father had Mr. Buetsch’s brooch, but the salvage award still hadn’t been settled. At least there had been no mention of it in the newspapers. Rourke should still be in port.

A younger Elizabeth would have gone to him. She crossed to the window. A sliver of moon hung above the neighboring
house, casting its faint light on the empty street below. No laughter or conversation. No rattle of carriage wheels or snort of a horse. Not even a footstep or the whistling of a merry tune. Nothing.

Elizabeth reached out to the rustling tamarind leaves. An old black seedpod clung to the branch. She pulled it off and cracked open the dried pod, spilling the seeds into the palm of her hand. Key West had recovered from the dreadful hurricane, but her family had not. Like the seedpods, they clung to the security of the past. Could she let go and seek fresh soil?

She cast the seeds out the window.

Movement drew her eye toward the back of the house, beside the stables. Someone or something lurked in the shadows. An animal or an intruder? The hairs rose on her arms. Perhaps it was nothing more than one of the servants attending to necessary business, but what if it was a man, like Mr. Finch? That prospect thundered in her ears.

She blew out her candle and found a clear view of the stable and gate. She searched the shadows for another sign of movement. For a long while, nothing happened. She’d begun to think the first movement had been a figment of her imagination when the bushes rustled again, this time near the gate. The shadow identified it as a person in a long, voluminous cloak.

Elizabeth gripped the window frame and leaned out a little farther. Who would be leaving at this hour and in such a manner? Father would not dart about in the dark. Charlie couldn’t leave. Aunt Virginia was snoring down the hall. That left either a servant or an unwelcome visitor.

She waited, safely screened by the tamarind branches. Soon the person must step into the weak moonlight. Then she might see who it was.

The fitful breeze rustled the leaves, and a cloud scudded across the crescent moon. At that moment, the person darted out of the shadows.

Though the darkness obscured any features, enough light remained to silhouette the figure for an instant. The long skirt betrayed her gender. Elizabeth peered into the darkness, trying to make out who it was. Only the faint outline of a hunched figure could be discerned.

The cloud departed, and the yard illuminated just as the woman touched the latch on the gate. Soon she would be gone, and Elizabeth would not know who it was. Somehow she must get the woman to turn her face. She dare not shout, but she still held the empty seedpod. If she threw it against something, it might startle the woman. She looked around and spotted the drainpipe that funneled rainwater into the cistern. Of course.

She flung the pod with all her might. It rattled off the metal pipe and dropped to the ground. The sound was enough to startle the woman. She stood tall and looked back. Elizabeth gasped.

Anabelle!

Where would she be going at this hour, well after curfew, when Elizabeth had specifically asked her not to do that again? If Aunt saw her . . . Elizabeth shivered. Thank goodness Aunt Virginia was still snoring. Father might spot her, though, and that could not come to any good.

Elizabeth must stop her. She threw on the old dark blue gown since it didn’t require corseting. Her nightgown could serve as chemise and petticoat. With her kid shoes in hand, she slipped into the hallway. No light filtered from beneath the door to Father’s bedroom, nor did light cast the stairway in a soft glow. Father must either be asleep or be closed inside his office.

She crept down the stairs by touch alone, taking care to avoid the creaky spots. Still, a lower tread groaned under her weight. She halted and listened. Not a sound. Since the staircase emptied into the hallway, she only had to pass Charlie’s room and Father’s study. Both rooms were dark. The rear door stood wide open to let the cool night air flow through the house.

Once outside, she tugged on her shoes. Crossing the yard took mere moments, but she’d lost a lot of time. The crescent moon was higher now, giving her a little more light. She whisked past the stable and found the gate resting against its latch. By the time she hurried through and checked the alley in both directions, Anabelle was gone.

Which way did she go? Elizabeth thought quickly. If Anabelle was visiting a Negro friend, she was most likely headed toward Africa Town, the area past the Marine Hospital where the colored people lived. Elizabeth headed in that direction at a brisk pace. At Eaton Street, she again looked in both directions.

No Anabelle. Not one soul could be seen.

She was about to give up when two blocks ahead she saw the woman dart out of a small building and turn onto Duval Street heading toward the wharves. Why would she go west? Africa Town was in the opposite direction.

Elizabeth soon traversed the two blocks to the building that Anabelle had exited. Four years ago, a grogshop occupied this spot. Today, piano music drifted out the door, but these tunes were not the jigs and chanteys of a saloon. Instead, the pianist played a hymn, “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.”

She paused, drawn by this favorite tune. The pianist expertly moved across the keys, allowing the bass notes to counterpoint the higher octaves. Who would be playing at such an hour?

A look would only take a moment. The door was open. She
could identify the pianist without losing more than half a block to Anabelle.

One little step into what had appeared to be utter darkness revealed a chapel with chairs lined up on either side. At the front, against the right-hand wall, stood an upright piano with a single candle flickering atop it. No music rested on the music shelf. The lighting would have been too poor to read the notes in any case. The pianist played from memory and with such abandon that he did not appear to have seen or heard her.

Elizabeth could not move, enthralled. The beloved melody had drawn her in, but it was the man at the piano who held her there. Every phrase flowed from his fingers. Every note wrapped around her like a cool breeze, gently ensnaring her. Each line led to another. She did not want to leave. She could not leave.

Rourke had never told her he played.

Someone had entered the chapel. Rourke heard the soft movement, the light steps. A boy or a woman, he judged, too small to cause trouble. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the music. Though his fingers stayed the course, his mind soon drifted. Whoever this person was, he or she had just missed Anabelle. God’s doing, no doubt. Even a woman or boy might tell tales that would bring condemnation on both Anabelle and him. The fact that this person remained silent meant that none of their conversation had been overheard.

Rather than stop at the end of the hymn, he moved straight into another and another. Still the person did not move or speak. The longer he played, the greater the chance that Anabelle would safely reach her husband aboard the
Windsprite
.

Rourke had cleared the way for their meeting, but it had in
volved too many players for his comfort. He did not yet know if Benjamin’s groom could be trusted. He’d appealed to the man’s sense of justice as well as the love of a husband for his wife. Though Nathan was not married to his love in the way that whites defined the institution, they had lived as husband and wife for many a year. In every way but law they were a family, with a daughter to show for it. Such a man should understand a husband’s desperate longing for his wife.

What if Nathan didn’t? What if the footsteps Rourke had heard enter the chapel belonged to the man’s daughter? She could betray Anabelle to her master. Charles Benjamin would ensure Anabelle never had another chance to escape. He had sold her mother to a Louisiana planter. The daughter could easily follow. Anabelle could disappear into a place where neither Rourke nor John could ever find her.

At all costs, Benjamin must not discover this plot.

The hymns rose as prayers—for strength, for standing upon God’s promises. Rourke would play through the night if it would guarantee Anabelle’s safety.

By the fourth hymn, a familiar scent tickled his nose. Jasmine. Elizabeth.

His fingers stilled, the last note dropping into the darkness like a raindrop into a cistern. Could it be her? Or were his senses mistaken? No word had been spoken. Another person might use that scent. On the other hand, enough time had passed for Anabelle to have reached the
Windsprite
.

Drawn like a moth to flame, he turned.

There she stood, in a dress too short and too plain. Her honeyed hair flowed over her shoulders in loose waves. The dying candle bronzed the curves of her face. Her eyes were closed, her face tilted up as if drinking in heaven’s glow.

He held his breath and wished the moment would not end.

Then her lips parted, her face turned to him, and she opened those blue eyes. “You stopped playing.”

Her words reverberated in the empty room, soft and low and deeply felt, almost reverent.

He could not rip his gaze from her. “I reached the end.”

Still she did not move. “You play so beautifully. I did not know. How long?”

“Many years. The boardinghouse has a piano.”

“I’ve never known a sailor to play.”

“Many do.”

“Hymns?”

“No.” He could not tell her that they played in grogshops for a drink or a strumpet’s attention. A woman like Elizabeth should never know the darker side of life. Her father was right to protect her. Rourke must too.

“A pity,” she breathed. “They are so . . . peaceful.”

Peace. That was what he’d seen in her expression a moment ago and what had been missing from it the other night at supper with Finch. “You aren’t at peace?”