The Shipmaster's Daughter (2 page)

“Father, look at this shell.”

He glanced down and tossed aside the pebble in his grasp. Squatting beside her, he looked at the curved, salmon colored seashell in her small fingers. He took it from her and rolled it in the palm of his hand.

“That’s a nice one.” He gave it back. “Put it in the bucket.” He stood and brushed the sand off of his hands.

Esther looked up at him and smiled, dimples appearing in her round cheeks. “Mama would have liked it. Don’t you think?”

Reed pointed down shore. “Why don’t you go and search there?”

Esther didn’t have to be told twice. She turned on her heel, forgetting her neglected question, and took off, her blonde curls flouncing behind her. Her slippered feet tripped over the sand. Reed rubbed his hand over his face and let go of a deep sigh.

“Sir? Mr. Hargrave, sir?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Peters, what is it?”

Peters, the butler, cleared his throat. His oversized stomach and ill-fitting waistcoat reminded Reed of the poor state of his staff. He winced. Peters’s long, sagging face had endured much under Reed’s employment. Most of the staff left five or six years earlier, fed up with Reed’s forgetfulness and seeming lack of interest in fulfilling his duties. Peters, though, had stayed on, ever loyal, ever understanding.

“The books, sir, they really must be looked after.”

“Yes, I know, but as you can see–” Peters coughed, his eyebrow upturning slightly. Reed held up his hands in defeat. “Fine. If you want to condemn me to a life of misery, go ahead.”

Peters sighed. “Sir.” The word was long and slow and Reed reminded himself that Peters was not a man to be tested.

“I’ll be up to the house in a minute. You go on and send Brigette to look after Esther.”

“Yes, sir.” Peters bowed stiffly at the waist before turning and heading over the hill toward the house.

Reed looked down the shore. Thanks to the heavy mist, he could no longer see his daughter. He could barely see past ten feet. The only sounds came from the waves crashing against the sand and the gulls circling the water. It was peaceful, tranquil, everything Reed loved about the ocean.

Cupping his hand around his mouth, he called for Esther. She didn’t answer. He walked forward, cursing under his breath, and then called for her again. When she didn’t answer the third time, his heart began to hammer in his chest.

The ocean was an unforgiving master. A single wrong move and one could be lost forever. The idea of Esther, who could barely swim, being pulled out in the forceful tide made Reed’s head buzz with fear.

An ear piercing scream stopped his heart entirely. He shifted on his feet, titling his head toward the sound. The gulls stopped their crying and even the crash of waves seemed muted. His heart stilled, his ear straining.

The scream came again.

Reed took off toward the noise. His boots skid over the loose, rocky shore, causing him to nearly lose his balance. “Esther!”

Seconds, minutes ticked past. He couldn’t breathe.

At last she answered. “Father!”

Reed’s legs took him faster. As the mist broke, the outline of her small frame standing on the edge of the shore appeared. A wave washed by her feet, touching the tips of her slippers. Hadn’t she been told not to wear those outside? He didn’t care. She was unhurt, standing and in one piece. The slippers were replaceable; she was not.

He caught her in his arms, once again allowing himself to breathe. He picked her up with ease, holding her head against his shoulder. She struggled against him.

“People. There are people on the shore.”

Her words went in one ear and out the other. Reed set her on her feet, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. “Why on earth did you scream like that?”

“Mr. Hargrave!” The strangled, out-of-breath voice of Brigette caused Reed to stand to his full height, his hand still clasped tightly on Esther’s shoulder. “Mr. Hargrave, I heard the scream and came runnin’. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Brigette, thank you. Esther was the one who called out.”

Brigette, a young girl from Hackney, meant well in everything she did, but often fell short. She’d barely completed the first six years of school and it showed. But what she lacked in smarts, she made up for in heart. “Oh gracious. I was so scared somebody had fallen over dead.”

“But, Brigette, there
are
dead people,” Esther piped up. Her voice was breathy and low, her face white. She looked at Reed, pulling on his hand. “Come and look.”

Reed rarely discouraged his daughter’s imagination, but joking about dead people on the shore caused him to second guess himself. “Esther, don’t lie. There are no dead people. Tell me the truth. Why did you scream?”

“I’m telling the truth. Honest.” Her wide, blue eyes stared up at him, imploring.

Brigette shifted uncomfortably on her feet, pebbles crunching beneath her shoes. Reed glanced between the two girls before sighing. “Show me then.”

Esther let go of her father’s hand and scurried back down the shore. Reed started after her, Brigette following close behind. The mist began to lift, giving Reed better visibility into the distance. Esther stood where a massive rock jutted out of the water near the edge of the shore.

He stopped short when his eyes fell across the scene laid out before him. Over his shoulder, Brigette gasped. He reached forward to push Esther behind his back. “Dear God, you weren’t lying,” he breathed.

Four people lay on the shore, some half submerged in the water, some discarded further up the rocks. Two sections of wood bobbed on the edge of the ocean, drifting further and further away with each pull of the tide. A trunk, massive and made of oak, lay at the foot of one of the men. Sand covered their wet and slimy clothing. Spots of blood dotted the terrain around them.

Reed turned to Brigette. “Go to the house and have Mrs. Peters fetch the doctor and send down Jameson. We’ll need help moving them.”

Brigette faltered, her face tight with confusion and shock. “Up to the house, sir?”

“Yes, of course. Where else?” he snapped, pointing to the hill. “Go. And take Esther with you.”

Brigette bobbed a curtsey and grabbed Esther’s hand, pulling her along, much to the little girl’s displeasure. After a moment’s hesitation, Reed went to the two people nearest the edge of the ocean. He hooked his arms underneath a man’s shoulders and dragged him further up shore. He repeated the process for the second man and then returned to the ocean’s edge. Squatting, he prodded the shoulder of the last person, a young woman. She lay on her stomach, her head turned to the side. A mass of sand-covered, black hair obscured her features. To Reed, she looked close to dead, but the gentle rise and fall of her back told him she still clung to life.

He lifted her into his arms and hurried toward the house, passing Jameson and Peters on the way. He stopped long enough to catch their attention.

“Bring those men and that trunk up to the house. Has Mrs. Peters sent for the doctor?”

“Yes, sir, but he won’t be able to come until he’s finished delivering the Monroe’s baby.”

“Fine, but hurry with those men.”

Reed crested the hill and picked up his pace. His home—Yellow Brook Hall—was still one hundred yards away. It sat atop the hill, its yellow paint chipping, revealing the dark, rotting wood beneath. The attic window was broken and boarded shut. A glass dome—the greenhouse—stuck out from the back of the house, broken, dirty windows and all.

He rushed up the front steps and pushed open the door with his hip. His boots echoed on the marble floors. “Mrs. Peters,” he called. “Mrs. Peters!”

A woman with a round stomach and blotchy face turned the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, sir? Oh goodness,” she said. Her eyes took in the woman in his arms with calculated alarm. “Bring her this way.”

“Jameson and Peters are bringing the others.” The woman in his arms, who had once felt as light as a feather, had grown heavy over the long walk. Water dripped from her hair and the hem of nightgown. He could feel her delicate curves underneath his hands. Heat rose on the back of his neck.

Mrs. Peters led Reed down the east hallway toward the main staircase. She may have been on the plumper side, but when faced with an urgent issue, Mrs. Peters became quick as a hare. She took the stairs two at a time, her hand gripping the marble railing. Once at the top of the stairs, she brought Reed to one of the few guest rooms, pushing the door open with a flourish.

“I haven’t had time to clean it,” she said, a faint blush covering her cheeks.

Reed grunted, pushing past her into the room. “It’ll do.”

The room was medium sized and sparse. A four poster bed rested in the center of the space, the green sheets tattered around the edges. Faint rays of light shined through the corner window, illuminating layers of long forgotten dust. Reed placed the young woman on the bed.

He hovered for a moment. Mrs. Peters pulled the hair away from the woman’s face, revealing her features. A long, thin gash stretched from her left eyelid to her chin. Blood crusted the wound. Her lips, full and defined, were chapped and split.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked, backing toward the door.

Mrs. Peters glanced over her shoulder then shook her head. “No, sir. I want to clean this wound before tending to the others.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to it.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Is she going to be all right?”

Reed cursed, his muscles tightening in surprise. “Esther, do not scare me like that.” He started off toward his office. He was already in need of a stiff drink and the day had barely begun. Something warned him, though, that the day was far from over.

Esther followed him, her little legs struggling to keep pace with his long strides. “That lady—will she be all right?”

Reed stopped at the door of his office, his hand on the knob. “I have no idea.”

“When can I see her?”

He snorted. “See her? Why would you want to see her?”

Esther shrugged. “She’s magical.”

“Magical?”

“Like a mermaid, but without the tail. I read about them in one of my books.”

Reed rolled his eyes. “Remind me to look over the books Brigette gives you.”

“But can I see her, Father?”

“Perhaps once the doctor says she’s recovered. Until then, I want you to stay out of Mrs. Peters’s and the doctor’s way. Understood?”

She pouted, her nose wrinkling. “Yes, Father.”

“Sir, there are no other furnished guest rooms. Where should we put the men?” Peters’s question pulled Reed away from the room he so desperately wanted to disappear in to.

“They can stay in my room,” Esther offered.

Reed held up his hand, silencing her, his eyes on Peters. “Are there any other rooms?”

“No, sir.”

“Set up cots in the Great Hall. I’m sure they can survive there.”

“What about the broken window, sir? There’s a nasty draft and–”

“They will survive,” Reed repeated, his tone stern.

Peters nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

Reed sent his daughter to occupy herself until supper. At last, he was left alone in his office to think. He settled back in his chair, a glass of wine in hand. What was he going to do with these people? Yellow Brook was no hospital. He liked his life the way it was. He woke at dawn and spent his days in solitude. Brigette taught Esther the best she could in the afternoon, and at evening, father and daughter ate together in relative silence. Things were quiet, calm. But these people, whoever they were, wherever they had come from, messed with his routine. Reed didn’t appreciate that. He’d worked hard to distance himself from the rest of Eastbourne.

After Katherine had died, people flocked from town. They brought food and sympathy, but Reed wanted neither. He wanted his wife back; that was all he wanted.

He spent the better part of that afternoon staring blankly at the house checkbooks. The thought of the people now under his roof—in particular, the young woman—kept him from focusing. He wondered who she was. She wasn’t English, he knew that. Italian, maybe. Her olive toned skin was unlike any he’d ever seen before. The ladies of Eastbourne kept their skin as white as china, never tanned by the sun.

Someone knocked on his office door.

His neck snapped up, cracking. “Come in,” he said, voice gruff. He rubbed his tender muscles.

Peters stepped into the doorway. “The doctor is here, sir.”

Reed stood, readjusting his waistcoat. “Show me to him.”

Chapter 3

S
omeone pulled on Luciana’s eyelid. She groaned, lifting her arm to bat the hand away. The fingers dropped her eyelid and her arm fell onto the bed. She closed her eyes tighter, warding off the noise that increased around her.

Everything about her hurt.

Her entire body was sore. Even her fingernails were sore from. The cut on her cheek burned. Her head throbbed.

“Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”

Luciana opened her eyes. For a moment, the light from the oil lamp beside her blinded her. Her sight soon recovered and she found herself staring into the thin, aging face of an old man. He smiled. Several teeth were missing from the top of his mouth, but his smile was genuine. He patted her shoulders, leaning away from her face.

“So you’ve decided to come back to the land of living, yes?” he asked. Without giving her the chance to answer, he continued. “Just as well because I can’t stand to deliver a baby one minute and pronounce someone dead the next.”

“Don’t crowd her, Doctor Holt, please. I may be a simple housekeeper, but I know crowding when I see it.” Doctor Holt backed away to reveal the red face of a middle-aged woman. She wore a white cap on her head, graying curls sticking out of the sides.

“Yes, of course.” Doctor Holt cleared his throat, snapping his bag closed. “I must tend to the others, but in the meantime, Mrs. Peters, give the girl some broth. She is running a fever, but I doubt that will last long.”

“And if it does?”

Doctor Holt hesitated, pursing his lips. “Worry about that if you ever come to it.” He patted her shoulder and left the room.

After the door closed, Mrs. Peters moved toward a cream colored wash basin, wringing a rag over it. She muttered under her breath about the doctor’s incompetence and failing eyesight before at last turning to Luciana.