Starlight & Promises (23 page)

“And there?” he said, gesturing to the far western end of Macquarie Street.

“Another government garden. That scattering of trees and thick brush line the Derwent River. On the other side of the river are quartered the hospital and surgeon’s office, the harbormaster’s house, and the carpenter and smith’s shops.” When she turned to look at him, he had wandered away to join in conversation with Christian at a distance, and she returned to her survey.

Small, residential houses, built and occupied by free settlers, dotted the cross streets to the west, and the inevitable concentration of taverns and inns lined Delvey Street close to the piers. A tiny church sat in an isolated area north of town, as though distancing itself from the bustle and licentious activities of the heavily used port.

Richard had also indicated that Hobart was an important stop along the England-India trade route, and ships of all sizes plied the harbor. Beyond the harbor and town, Tasmania remained a wild, unsettled, mostly unexplored land filled with strange animals and certain death for the unwary. Steep mountains and impenetrable jungle blanketed its interior and challenged only the boldest explorers. The British had no real incentive to explore and settle the remainder of the treacherous land. They chose Tasmania for colonization solely for its deep, sheltered harbors and welcoming coastline, so important to Britain’s trading community and convenient to the riches of the East. Therefore, Tasmania remained an untamed nation with only a small band of settlers along the southern coast who barely kept the inhospitable wilderness at bay.

With a frown, Samantha swept her gaze over the town. Where amidst the bustling streets or hostile wilderness could her uncle Richard have gone?

When Christian entered her cabin, Samantha was adjusting a feathered hat atop her curls. A deep burgundy suit trimmed with black velvet molded the curves of her figure. The snug jacket displayed a double row of brass buttons down the front and repeated on shoulder epaulets. The skirt draped back into a low bustle. She had inspected herself in a mirror earlier and thought she looked like a military commander ready to face battle. She turned at Christian’s step and gave him a wary smile.

“Shall we go?” she asked, a militant set to her shoulders.

He also appeared prepared for battle with legs braced apart, squared shoulders, and hands linked behind his back. A stern expression rode his features, eyes hooded, and those soft lips she knew so well set in a thin, hard cast. One look at his merciless features, and the starch seeped from her. She knew what was coming. He was so damnably unfair.

“I’ve already informed you,” he said in a tightly controlled voice, “that neither you nor your family can disembark until Garrett and I make arrangements for housing. Once you foisted yourself on me, I planned for you to stay in a boardinghouse. Of course, since you saw fit to drag along half of London on your skirt hem, that plan is no longer feasible. I’ll have to lease a house, which may take a few days. You will stay on board and behave. Hobart is a rough town. Ladies have no business gadding about unescorted.”

“I could remain with you and Garrett,” she said, unrepentant for conveniently forgetting their previous conversation.

“We’ll be engaged. I cannot escort you about. Am I to locate a house, seek information regarding your uncle’s whereabouts, and get this expedition under way as soon as possible, I’ll have no time to act as your guide. If my business proceeds satisfactorily, I’ll take you into town tomorrow.”

“Then I shall go ashore with Pettibone.”

He sighed. “You will not. Pettibone is about as intimidating and as much protection as a mosquito.”

“How about Pettibone and Jasper? I must find out what happened to Uncle Richard. So much time has passed already, and—”

“No, Sam!” he said, voice rising nearly to a shout. “You heard me clearly. You’ll wait until I can take you ashore. That’s my final word.”

She gave him a sullen look, and he scowled, jaw firming into granite. “Give me your promise you’ll not leave the ship without my permission.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Promise. Or I’ll lock you in my cabin until I return.”

“I promise,” she said in a small, unconvincing voice.

“Heed me well. You’d better obey me.”

When she offered no comment and longingly gazed out the porthole at Hobart, Christian grasped her chin and turned up her face. Eyes as cool as a lizard’s hide bored into hers. “Promise?”

“Promise,” she said with a sigh.

He let loose a curse under his breath and strode to the door. “I’ll return tomorrow around noon.” He pointed at the cabin floor. “Be right here when I come aboard.”

When the door closed, she slung her black velvet reticule across the cabin, ripped off her hat, threw it to the floor, and stomped on it with a black-booted foot. She flounced to her bunk to flop onto her belly and brace her chin in her hands.

‘Twas not fair! Christian had become a tyrant!
Become?
She snorted. When had he
not
been a tyrant? Was he oblivious to how desperately she wished to find her uncle? She lived in constant fear that Uncle Richard and James had met with foul play or some horrific accident. Tomorrow Christian would decide he had a more important agenda than to escort her into town. Why could she not go ashore and conduct her own investigation? Because she was a woman? Ridiculous! Was this not
her
expedition and he merely her paid employee? Did he even realize how contradictory he was? For all his egalitarian talk about women’s rights, he excluded
her
from the group deserving any consideration.

Samantha changed into a day dress and fumed until supper, all the while searching for a legitimate reason that would allow her to break her promise in good conscience. As he had extracted the vow through duress, surely she was not bound by it. With a sudden smile, she recalled some of his words in between all the blustering. Only unescorted
women
courted danger in Hobart. If she were to go as a boy … Christian would not return until noon tomorrow. She had sufficient time. He would never suspect she had left, and
she
certainly would not enlighten him.

Samantha rummaged through her chest for her trousers and shirt and contemplated taking Cullen with her. No. Cullen worshipped Christian and would not keep her secret. She had to slip off without anyone seeing her. The ship had anchored in the harbor rather than docking at the quay, so she would have to borrow a dinghy.

Samantha approached Delia after dinner. “Auntie, I have a raging headache. The smoke from the chimneys in Hobart is beastly strong. I forgot how foul the air could be near a town.”

Delia placed the back of her hand against Samantha’s forehead. “You are not running a fever, dear, are you? I do hope you have no inclination to come down with some dread ailment.” She grasped Samantha’s elbow, trundled her down to the cabin, and helped her undress. When Samantha lay in bed under the covers, Delia stroked her cheek. “An early night will do wonders for you. You have had entirely too much excitement on this trip.”

Samantha held back a smile.
If you only knew the whole of it, Aunt Delia!

Delia paused at the door. “We shall be as quiet as mice when we retire so as not to wake you. Now try to sleep.” She exited in a swirl of bombazine skirts and muslin petticoats.

As soon as Delia left, Samantha leapt out of bed and pulled on her disguise. She had borrowed one of Cullen’s knit caps but could pin up her hair only after the other women fell asleep. Climbing back into her hammock, she jerked the covers up to her neck. Her thoughts whirled. Uncle Richard had mentioned the Blue Boar Inn in his last letter. That establishment would be the most obvious place to start.

By the time the watch called out ten o’clock, Delia and Chloe softly snored in the large bunk, and Gilly sighed in her sleep. Samantha slipped out of her hammock, retrieved her boots and cap, and crept out the door. She pinned up her hair in the passageway and tugged the knit cap down to the tops of her ears.

In the silent companionway, faint light came from two lanterns, one between the passenger cabins and one by the ladder. The ship rocked gently at anchor, and the lanterns cast leaping shadows in the narrow passage. A faint glow from the dock and town lights came from topside. Samantha snuck up on deck in her stockings, carrying her boots. She took a quick look about at the top of the ladder, checking the position of the night watch. After so many nights at sea, she had learned the sailors’ habits.

As she expected, the watch stood on the fo’c’sle, smoking his pipe. She made her way aft to the dinghies and cranked the winch to lower the boat into the water. When the crank squeaked, she froze, but the sighing of the ship’s timbers as it swayed on the incoming tide covered the noise. Slowly releasing her held breath, she clambered down the rope ladder and rowed away from the ship toward Hobart.

Samantha shifted from foot to foot in the street fronting the Blue Boar Inn, her fingers and toes tingling. Bedlam assaulted her ears from the crowd inside, and she nibbled on her thumbnail. Mayhap this was not her best inspiration. As she paced in front of the tavern, dredging up the courage to go forward, three sailors careened out the door and collided with her.

“Watch it, mate!” the one missing most of his teeth slurred. An odor of stale beer and onions blasted her in the face before the man cuffed her on the ear, knocking her askew and down on one knee. The three roared in drunken laughter and staggered off.

While pushing herself to her feet, she caught sight of two familiar figures striding down the walk toward the tavern.
Christian and Garrett!

Her pulse raced, and her breath jammed in her throat. Sucking in a lungful of air, she burst through the tavern door. ‘Twas an ill-conceived move. She crashed into a serving wench, who screeched and dropped her armload of tankards. Ale splashed up, soaking Samantha from waist to toes and covering the rowdy patrons at the three surrounding tables.

“See ‘ere, ye little bugger!” the woman shouted, her overstuffed bosom heaving in Samantha’s direction. A callused hand came out, grabbed her ear, and twisted hard.

Samantha spewed out a string of curses she had heard aboard ship and wriggled her way free. She clapped a hand to her smarting ear and dashed for the crouching shadows in the room’s far corner.

The indignant barmaid became swept up in the ensuing commotion. A scruffy man with a scraggly beard, sitting at a table near the altercation, accused the miscreant at the next table of cursing at him. He threw a roundhouse punch, knocking the innocent man backward and toppling his chair to the floor. When the sailor’s mangy friends sprang from their chairs and took revenge, Samantha crawled under a table.

The ale-soaked patrons blamed their nearest neighbors for their condition and took appropriate action, too. Fists flew, chairs flew, ale flew, and shouted curses turned the air blue. Serving maids swung trays with abandon, smiting the heads of guilty and innocent alike. The Irish proprietor leapt over his counter, shillelagh in hand, and cleaved a path through the combatants. Those he felled with his blows staggered and slumped against the walls, crawled out the door on their bellies, or lay in a stupor on the floor, sporting huge knots on their heads.

From her spot beneath the table, Samantha held her breath when the tavern door opened halfway. Christian stuck his head inside, withdrew with an expression of disgust, and closed the door. She exhaled and settled back on the floor to await the fight’s conclusion.

When the melee surged closer to her hiding place, she scooted farther beneath the table, and her back hit a pair of knees. She stiffened and looked behind her. A head dipped down and peered under the table, looking straight into her eyes.

“Hallo, lad,” the man said softly and chuckled. “You must be the one responsible for this fracas.” He crooked a finger. “Come out from under there and sit in a chair. They’ve already forgotten about you.”

She looked out at the room, at the fight raging on. She had no hope of making her way to the door yet. ‘Twas foolish to hide beneath the table now that she’d been discovered. She slid out and dropped into a chair at the man’s right side, assessing him while contemplating her next move.