Captain's Bride (26 page)

Glory just nodded and let the older woman lead her up
to her room. In the bedchamber, an airy room with a canopy bed and
crisp chintz curtains, Florence undressed her, ordered her to drink
the glass of warm milk Jeremy brought up, then tucked her into bed.
The older woman sat quietly beside her until she finally fell
asleep. Dreams of Nicholas kept her tossing and turning. She woke
up feeling more exhausted than she had the night before.

The weeks passed in a blur for Glory. Nathan
returned to school, and her aunt did all the things she’d promised.
Glory had beautiful new clothes and all the love and understanding
she could have wanted. Still it wasn’t enough. All she thought
about was Nicholas. At first she remembered the good things: the
way he’d cared for her and protected her, the way he’d made love to
her, the way he’d made her feel. She imagined him laughing,
sunlight glistening on his curly black hair. Or swimming in the
surf, water trickling in rivulets down his wide dark chest, the
stiff hairs beckoning her touch. How she missed him.

Oh, Nicholas, she would agonize, how could I have
been so wrong? How could I have loved you when you didn’t love me?
She wondered where he was, wondered what he was doing, remembered
with fondness the way he’d stood on the deck, feet apart, shirt
billowing as he rode the roll and pitch of the ship.

But the warm memories only made her more miserable,
and so little by little she compelled herself to forget them.
Purposely she dwelled on the night he had forced himself on her,
the terrible things he’d said. She remembered the way he treated
her those first few days after the shipwreck. His brooding
disposition. His arrogance, his terrible betrayal in the end.

Though she tried to build a new life with her aunt,
her heart wasn’t in it. Since she had no desire to attend the
numerous soirees and balls she would have been invited to, it took
her weeks before she realized no invitations had been sent. No one
had called at the house after the first few weeks. Not even her
aunt Flo’s closest friends. But it wasn’t until she overheard some
of the servants gossiping below the stairs that she realized how
firmly she had been cast out.

“They say she’s a woman of easy virtue.” Glory
recognized the scratchy voice of the upstairs maid. “They say she
slept right there in his cabin, that she had no shame.”

Gripping the banister to steady her suddenly shaky
legs, Glory felt her heart wrench.

“They shared a bed on some deserted island,” another
voice said. “Gussy Simpson told me all about it.”

“They’ve got a name for her, they have.” Glory bit
her lip. “ ‘The captain’s tart.’ That’s what folks call her.”

“It doesn’t matter
what
they call her,” Jeremy
Wiggins defended. “Miss Summerfield’s a fine young lady. She treats
us with kindness and respect. It’s that sea captain’s fault. The
man’s nothing but a scoundrel and a rogue. It’s obvious he took
advantage of her innocence. I hope someday he gets what he
deserves.”

Stomach in knots, her knees trembling so hard she
feared they wouldn’t support her, Glory sank down on the
stairs.

“You’re right, Jeremy,” Flora Whitman, the
housekeeper chimed in. “The bloody bastard ought to be
horsewhipped.”

Oh, God, how could this be happening? How could
Nicholas have done this to her? He must have known what would
happen. Either he did it on purpose or he just didn’t care.

She blinked hard, fighting back tears. The loyalty of
her aunt’s staff touched her. She felt a surge of affection for
Jeremy Wiggins—and the first real stirring of hatred for Nicholas
Blackwell.

“How long have you known what people are saying?”
she asked her aunt one night after supper. “That’s the reason you
never go out, isn’t it? It’s because of me.”

“It isn’t as bad as all that. They’re all a bunch of
puffed-up snobs anyway. They made me choose between them and you,
and I chose you. That’s all there is to it. If my niece isn’t good
enough for them, then neither am I.” Glory sank down on the plush
velvet sofa. “How did they find out?”

Florence sat next to her. “I’m not sure. The
shipwreck was written up in all the papers. Some journalist
interviewed several surviving crew members. They gave him the
details. It didn’t take much deduction to discover you’d been alone
with the captain for almost three weeks. The man has one sordid
reputation, I can certainly tell you that.”

This time Glory felt closer to anger than to tears.
“Nicholas Blackwell is a rake and a rogue. I was a fool to think he
cared for me. I know that now. Unfortunately it’s too late.”

“To make matters worse,” her aunt added, “people have
found out that Nathan is your half brother. Apparently you
introduced him that way to someone on the street.”

“Mrs. Wentworth, the day after Nathan and I arrived.
I was just so tired of lying. I’m proud of him. I won’t lie about
him again.”

Florence patted her hand. “The gossip will die down,”
she said. “It always does. The Summerfield name is not to be taken
lightly. By the time you go home, it’ll all be forgotten.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t going to be that easy.”

“Oh? Why not?”

When Glory didn’t answer, Florence sucked in a
breath. “Oh, my God. You don’t mean you’re . . .”

“I’m with child, Auntie Flo.”

Less than a month later they were on their way to
Boston. Glory was just beginning to thicken in the waist. At first
she’d felt as if Nicholas had played one final lewd joke on her.
But as the weeks crept by and the child began to move, her
resentment toward the baby faded away. The child was hers, too. He
or she was just an innocent victim of the destructive game Nicholas
had played. The only person she hated was Nicholas. The man who had
destroyed her life.

Florence owned a brownstone in Boston. Her late
husband, Leonard, had inherited it from his German parents. He’d
loved the old mansion so much that even after he died Florence
hadn’t had the heart to sell it. Now she was thankful she
hadn’t.

“We’ll change your name. Say you’re a young widow.
That your husband was killed in a hunting accident. Since you’ve
got a little of that soft southern accent, we’ll say you’re my
niece from Savannah—that’s close enough to the truth. You can be
Mrs.—”

“Hatteras,” Glory put in with a perverse sense of
drama. “That seems more than appropriate, since the strand was the
start of all my troubles.”

“Mrs. Gloria Hatteras it is.” Aunt Flo flashed a tiny
supportive smile.

Glory found she liked Boston, even with its cold
weather. The days were crisp and clear and the fall air
exhilarating. As the weeks passed, the weather grew colder, but
Glory found her mood improving each day. She had the baby to look
forward to now.

She only worried a little at the doctor’s warning:
“The baby seems situated a bit oddly,” he told her. “It may only
have a tenuous hold. You must rest and take extra care. And your
health could be better. From now on you are to eat three meals a
day and get plenty of sleep.”

She did exactly as he directed, and Aunt Flo doted on
her endlessly.

The first few weeks had been the worst. Shed been
sick every morning, looked wan and pale, and lost too much weight.
Though she no longer fought the morning sickness, she still didn’t
look as strong as she would have liked.

Wearing a comfortable black crepe mourning dress, she
sat in the downstairs drawing room while she practiced her
crocheting, a skill she’d learned just before leaving the manor.
Outside the window, she could see children playing ball on the
street. A warm fire crackled on the marble hearth.

“Hello, dear.” Her aunt entered the room on the arm
of a tall brown-haired man, elegantly dressed in dark gray frock
coat over a burgundy waistcoat and navy blue breeches.

“Glory, dear, this is George McMillan. He’s an old
friend of your uncle Leonard’s.”

George McMillan looked to be in his mid-thirties. A
few gray hairs, which made him look more distinguished than old,
betrayed his age, nothing more. He was lean and fit and exceedingly
handsome. His smile was warm and inviting, and for the first time
in weeks, Glory felt her interest stir.

“How do you do, Mr. McMillan?”

He brushed her fingers against his lips in a show of
gallantry, and Glory felt the pull of a smile. How long it had been
since someone had treated her like a woman. No. Like a lady. She
realized she had missed it.

“Please,” he said, his voice rich and warm. “I’d be
honored if you’d call me George.”

They sat in the drawing room for hours, discussing
everything from the weather to the politics of the day. With so
much time on her hands, Glory had become a devoted reader of the
Boston Transcript
as well as the
Liberator
, a fiery
abolitionist publication. When she’d lived at Summerfield Manor,
her most important concern had been which gown she would wear to
the next ball. After what she’d been through, all that seemed
superficial.

She found her interest sparked by concern for the
Negro and was particularly interested in a group headed by William
Lloyd Garrison and Frederick Douglass who called themselves the
Underground Railroad. They helped runaway slaves along the route to
the North, or assisted them in making a new start once they’d
reached freedom.

As it turned out, George McMillan had strong
antislavery feelings of his own.

“I’d be pleased, Mrs. Hatteras, if you’d accompany me
to the next meeting. They’re held at the Park Street Church.
Helping runaway slaves is not a popular sentiment these days, but
if you’ve the courage, the cause needs people like you. Especially
Southerns. It’s comforting to know they’re not all chained to the
same obsolete mentality.”

George came often after that, and they did attend a
few meetings, until her body became cumbersome and she no longer
looked just a little overweight. Pregnant women were not encouraged
to be seen in public, and Glory certainly didn’t need to offend the
people of Boston as she had those of New York.

Though she rested excessively, she often took
carriage rides through the streets of Boston. The brownstone stood
on Beacon Street, not far from the Common. She’d have the driver
head down Tremont, past King’s Chapel, and turn west toward the
Charles River. She had visited the harbor only once. The tall masts
of the schooners and packets wagging in the gentle breeze dredged
up painful recollections of Nicholas, memories she thought she’d
successfully buried. She could almost see him pacing the deck or
standing at the helm, his gray eyes searching the clouds for storm,
his broad shoulders squared against the roll and pitch of the
ship.

She wondered where he was and what he was doing,
wondered if he ever thought of her, wondered if he missed her as
she missed him. Just that one time did she allow herself to admit
the depth of her feelings, though in truth she missed Nicholas
Blackwell every single minute of the day. Her heart ached for him.
Her body yearned for his touch.

But she hated him, too. More every day. Mostly she
just felt numb. And bitter. With an emptiness that could never be
filled. She prayed that when the baby came things would be
different.

“Master Brad! Ain’t you a sight for these old eyes!
Come in, come in.” The wizened old black servant motioned Bradford
St. John into the foyer of the elegantly furnished town house near
Broadway.

“Hello, Isaac.”

“The captain’s surely gonna be glad to see you.” The
old man looked down, his bristly white hair unmoving as he shook
his head. “He ain’t been hisself lately.” The worried expression
lining his already puckered face told Brad all he needed to
know.

“So I’ve heard.” Brad had been worried about his
stepbrother. Nicholas had only been back in New York a few weeks,
but had uncharacteristically locked himself away. The few friends
he’d allowed in the house told stories of his stormy temper, black
moods, and bouts of despair. “Where is he?”

“He’s in his study. I’ll tell him you’re here.” The
old man teetered a few steps down the hall.

Bradford caught the butler’s thin arm. “I know the
way. Thank you, Isaac.” Isaac was a free man of color. He’d been
with Nicholas for as long as Brad could remember. The old man knew
Nicholas Blackwell’s temperament as well as any man alive. If Isaac
was worried, things were even worse than Brad had heard.

As he negotiated the dimly lit corridor, which was
usually bright and cheerful, Brad wondered if the dark hall
mirrored its master’s bitter mood. After knocking quietly on the
heavy wooden door, Brad lifted the latch and the door swung wide.
Embroiled in his thoughts, Nicholas appeared not to have heard the
knock. He sat before the hearth, staring into the flames of the
fire, his too-thin hand wrapped around a half-full snifter of
brandy.

“Hello, Nicholas,” Brad said softly.

When he turned, his brother’s eyes brightened, his
angular features softened for a moment. Then he was on his feet,
his long strides carrying him to the door. He extended his hand and
Brad shook it, but wasn’t satisfied till he’d enveloped his
stepbrother in a warm hug.

“You look even worse than I’d heard,” Brad teased,
more than half serious.

Nicholas almost smiled. “What are you doing in the
city?”

“I was in Tarrytown visiting Mother for the Christmas
holidays. The city’s not that far away, and I’ve missed you these
past few months.”

“And I you,” Nicholas agreed. “Sit down. I’ll pour
you a brandy.”

Brad took a seat on the tufted leather sofa. Nicholas
handed him a crystal snifter, then returned to his overstuffed
chair by the fire.

“You’re looking fit,” Nicholas said, and Brad smiled,
knowing he could never look as fit as his stepbrother. Even now, a
bit too thin, his face gaunt and a just little haggard, Nicholas
Blackwell emanated power and presence. Being eight years younger,
Brad had always looked up to Nicholas. It was Nicholas who was
paying for his schooling at Harvard, Nicholas who owned the estate
in Tarrytown on which he and his mother lived. He’d been more like
a father to Brad than an older brother.