If I Wait For You (3 page)

Sara whirled to face her brother. “How
could you not?” With brutal clarity she pictured the scene that had
just transpired seeing it through Mr. Mitchell’s eyes, and a
burning rush of humiliation filled her. What must he have thought
of her, bedraggled, dirty, and with a brother begging that he marry
her. For all her wild imaginings, she’d always known deep in her
heart that someone like West Mitchell was as unattainable to her as
the moon. To actually have her brother think the captain would
seriously consider marrying her was mortifying. Of course he would
not. She only was grateful that he had not laughed
outright.

“
I thought you would jump
at such a chance,” Zachary said, clearly perplexed by his sister’s
behavior. She let out a small sound of anguish before again turning
to the porthole.

“
If you had only told me
your plan. I knew he was engaged. Zachary, it was humiliating
enough to be presented before Mr. Mitchell in my disheveled state,
but to have you suggest marriage!”

Her brother looked at her
thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are correct. We should have cleaned you
up a bit. But I thought if you looked truly in need, the captain
would be more apt to agree to the proposal. Of course, I didn’t
know about the engagement, but you can hardly argue that marriage
to the captain is undesirable. After all, you told me yourself you
love him.”

Sara shot him a look of disbelief. “I
was fourteen years old, a girl with a silly crush. I am a woman
now, and I can assure you I am not in love with West
Mitchell.”

“
I am sorry,” he said with
true regret. “But I could think of no other way to make you
safe.”

Sara stared at her dirty bare feet. “I
fear even if presented to Mr. Mitchell in my finest dress, his
answer would have been the same. A man like West Mitchell does not
marry a girl like me,” she said, not hearing the wistfulness in her
voice.

“
What is wrong with you?
You are as good a girl as anyone. Certainly as good as whoever he
plans to marry.”

Sara laughed. “Oh, Zachary. Mr.
Mitchell lives in a mansion on the Hill. He is handsome and could
have any girl he wants. A rich girl, a pretty girl. A girl just
like the girl he plans to marry. Elizabeth Smithers.”

Zachary let out a small whistle,
acknowledging Miss Smithers’ attributes, then loyally said, “You’re
pretty.”

Sara’s eyes filled with tears, for no
one had ever called her pretty before and it moved her, even if it
was a lie. Suddenly overcome with weariness, she sat down heavily
on the bed and wiped away the wetness with her
fingertips.

“
I fear if I were the
prettiest girl in New Bedford Mr. Mitchell’s answer would still be
no,” Sara said, forcing a light tone. “And as I only have three
days to make him fall in love with me and jilt the most popular
girl in New Bedford before you sail, I fear all is
lost.”

Zachary nodded his reluctant agreement
and slumped down beside his sister, the picture of dejection. “I
know him for a kind man, and I thought perhaps he would agree to
such a marriage. I am sorry if I caused you pain, Sara.”

“
I would not have wanted to
have anyone marry me for pity’s sake.” She looked at her brother
fondly, any anger she’d felt for his ill-conceived plan long
gone.

“
I don’t know what we
should do, Sara. The danger to you if you remain in New Bedford
alone is very real. I shall not leave you. I cannot sail knowing
you are in danger or knowing you face a trial alone.”

Sara shifted on the bed so she fully
faced her brother, grasping his wrist hard. “Zachary, you must sail
Tuesday. You must. You are third mate. He’s made an officer of you
after only a single voyage.”

“
Only because one mate and
half the crew abandoned ship to search for gold when we hit San
Francisco,” Zachary said, but it was obvious he was pleased by
Sara’s praise.

Sara appeared deep in thought, one
finger twirling a curl endlessly. “I know,” she said, brightening.
“I can go to Great Aunt Gertie’s in Boston. No one here knows of
her and I can stay there until things settle down here. Or even
until you return.”

“
Aunt Gertie’s still
alive?” Zachary said, his eyebrows lifting.

Sara laughed. “You know mother was
always complaining that Aunt Gertie would outlive us all cheating
us out of her inheritance.” Zachary joined in her laughter, for
Aunt Gertie was even poorer than the Dawes family.

“
Aunt Gertie,” he said
fondly. “My God, the old bird must be ninety years old.”

“
Ninety-one,” Sara said.
“See? You can go knowing I’ll be safe.” Her voice caught, and Sara
swallowed resolutely. For Aunt Gertie was not alive, there was no
safe place in Boston, no one to help her once Zachary was gone.
“I’ll only need some money, as much as you can spare.”

Zachary flushed. He could barely spare
enough for a night’s lodging in an inn and coach fare to Boston, he
explained. As a ship’s officer, he deemed it necessary to buy a new
suit of clothes. That and his time home in New Bedford ate up
nearly all of the tiny earnings made during his four-year whaling
journey. Swallowing her disappointment, Sara took the coin with a
brave smile, wrapping her fist about the money in near desperation.
It was not enough, not nearly enough, for she had only the clothes
on her back. But she could not ask Zachary for more, not without
him becoming suspicious of just how needy she was. The only place
he could go for more money was back to Captain Mitchell to request
an advance, and she would not allow Zachary to go begging on her
account. Not again.

When night touched the sky, Zachary
led Sara off the ship, giving her a fierce hug.

“
I hate leaving you like
this,” he said. “You’re certain Aunt Gertie will take you
in?”

Sara forced a smile. “Of course. God
speed, Zachary.” She wrapped her arms about his neck one last time
closing her eyes against the tears that threatened, believing in
her heart she might never see her brother again.

Chapter TWO

Sara, feeling as if she
were living out a horrible dream, made her way to a mean little inn
not far from the waterfront. She picked the inn mainly for its
cheap lodging prices and its proximity to the
Julia
. Though she might never see
her brother again, she took comfort in his nearness.

As dirty as the hostel was, the owner,
a painfully thin man wearing a sweat-stained shirt and ragged
waistcoat, looked at her as if she were some wharf rat come to ask
for a room. He took her coin readily enough, leading her to a room
that overlooked an alley. The open window did little to ease the
oppressive heat of the third-floor room, and only served to let in
the stench of low tide, as well as hungry mosquitoes that were
immediately attracted to the lamplight.

Sara turned to thank the man, but he
was gone before she could, leaving her with a single lamp to light
the sorry space. The bed was nothing more than a mattress laid upon
a wooden platform, and the blankets were mussed, as if someone had
just lain there. She shuddered, unwillingly thinking of her own
pristine bed, the crisp white sheets that she herself had washed
and ironed, her soft down pillow. Other than the bed, the room held
a small table for her lamp and a series of hooks for her to hang
her clothes. Since she had only what she wore on her back, there
was no need to make use of those hooks.

Suddenly, it was all too much to bear.
She crumpled to the floor, her body wracked with sobs. “Mama, Mama,
Mama,” she cried. Even as she called out for her mother, a part of
Sara recognized that the mother she knew would not have comforted
her, would not have held her as she so needed to be held. But she
cried for her anyway, cried until a loud banging cut off her
strangled sobs.

“
Shut the hell up in
there,” a man’s gruff voice called. A woman’s giggle followed. The
voices were so clear, it seemed as if the pair shared the room with
her, and Sara held her breath so as not to make the tiniest of
sounds. Slowly she relaxed, her fear-filled eyes pinned to the
wall. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to
herself.

After that, she became painfully aware
of each sound she heard, including the odd grunting and rhythmic
banging coming from the room next door. It took a few moments
before Sara realized what she was listening so intently to, and her
cheeks burned in embarrassment each time the woman cried out or the
man moaned. With a final frenzy of banging and one loud grunt, it
was over, and Sara was inordinately relieved.

Exhausted, she eyed the sorry little
bed with distaste. Gingerly she smoothed the rough wool blanket,
fearing that at any moment some creature would skitter from beneath
it. Lifting the lamp’s globe, she hesitated before blowing out that
comforting light. Then she lay down flat on her back, her eyes
open, her body tense. She tried not to think about tomorrow, or the
hundreds of tomorrows that would follow. Instead, she forced
herself to imagine a beautiful ball gown, a large orchestra,
twinkling chandeliers, and a man, a beautiful man who looked very
much like West Mitchell. And she danced and danced. She fell asleep
with a smile upon her lips.

Before Sara left the inn the next
morning, she had the vaguest of plans. More than anything, she
needed shoes, stockings and underthings, a needle and thread, soap,
a comb, and food. She could wash and repair her skirt and bodice,
but felt naked with only her nightdress beneath the clothes she had
so hastily donned the night of the fire so that she might follow
Nathan Wright. How ironic it seemed now; she thought she was
helping to solve a murder only to have her actions lead to her
being accused of that very crime. Eyeing her small pile of money,
she determined she could buy the cheapest of what she needed and
make due until she had a job.

Her greatest problem was buying the
goods without being discovered by those searching for her. Nearly
all of the shopkeepers knew her by sight, which meant Sara would
have to travel as she was before she could make herself
presentable. Without her crinoline, she was forced to roll the
waist of her skirt until the hem just brushed the floor. She tried
walking to see if her bare feet were visible. They were. With a
small shrug, Sara decided that was far better than ruining the hem
of the only skirt she owned. She simply looked like a desperately
poor woman—which was exactly what she now was.

God had blessed her with a rainy day.
The streets would be nearly empty on a day such as this, and Sara
stepped out of the inn with a lightness she thought amazing given
her wretched circumstances. She had overslept, and it was coming on
near noon when she began to make her way down the street, her eyes
darting about as she looked for pursuers. Keeping close to the
buildings, Sara escaped the worse of the downpour, but was soon
soaked to her skin, her hair clumping thickly down her back. The
streets were deserted and Sara relaxed a fraction. She walked,
keeping the waterfront within sight, crazily planning to dive into
the river to escape anyone giving chase.

Rain slashed against her face, her
skirts hung heavily against her legs, making it difficult to walk.
The smooth slate sidewalks were cold and slick beneath her bare
feet, and she made a mental note that shoes and stockings would be
the first of her purchases. Up ahead through the rain she could see
the gray outlines of two men walking her way along the long row of
brick warehouses that lined the waterfront. Quick panic set in,
which she tried to quash. Certainly in her present state no one
would recognize her. As the men grew closer, their forms became
more defined, their faces less obscure. Both had their heads
lowered against the rain and Sara prayed they wouldn’t even spare
her a glance. When they were within a few yards, Sara lowered her
head, allowing her hair to obscure her face, telling herself not to
look up. She walked stiffly, fear almost paralyzing her, even as
she told herself they were simply two men walking down a street.
Just as they were about to pass, Sara looked up and straight into
the eyes of one of the men. A stranger, thank God. She felt an
overwhelming sense of relief and almost found herself smiling a
hello when she saw a stunning flash of recognition in his eyes a
split second before he reached for her, this man she could not
recall ever seeing before in her life. For one horrible moment,
Sara could do nothing but watch that large, dirty hand stretch
toward her.

With a small sound of fright, Sara
turned and ran, stumbling as her wet skirts heeded her
flight.

“
Get the bitch!”

Within seconds she felt a hand grab at
her hair, her head snapping back painfully. She became a wild
woman, flailing her arms, struggling to run, all without making
more than a strangled grunting sound. For even as she was filled
with terror, she knew better than to cry for help. No one in this
city would help her. She saw something flash, felt something at her
neck, right before one of her sharp elbows hit hard into the man’s
temple.

She was free and running,
her sodden skirts hiked up, her eyes wide with terror. Behind her
she heard the men cursing and her bare feet sank into the muddied
street as she ran toward the
Julia
. In her head, the ship’s name
became a litany, a prayer. She ran past dockworkers, not giving a
thought that one of them would or could help her. She had but one
thought—to reach the
Julia
. It was there, and only there,
that she would be safe.