Jo Goodman (8 page)

"I suppose it depends on what you have under the table." He quickly surveyed the silver and china pieces in front of her. Everything seemed to be accounted for. "It must be a napkin. I don't think you'll get much satisfaction from pitching it at me, but yes, it's about what my comment deserves." He watched her visibly restrain herself and kept his own smile in check. There was no point goading her until he got a water goblet thrown at his head. Even if he managed to duck the glass, he'd surely get wet. There was no dignity in that. He was satisfied when she picked up her fork and began eating.

Decker also applied himself to his meal. The roast beef was rare, basted in its own juices, and had been making his mouth water since he'd smelled it being prepared hours earlier. If he was being strictly honest with himself it was more than Jonna's company he had sought this evening. He was tired of the sickroom fare the doctor had ordered for him. In the last few days he had pressed Tess and one of her equally nervous friends into bringing him something more substantial from the cook's larder. But they were rightly afraid to be caught out and lose their positions in the house. It wouldn't be easy for them to find other work, even in Boston where there was considerable tolerance for freeborn blacks and fugitive slaves.

"I noticed you have a number of Negro servants working for you," Decker said.

Jonna wondered at what thoughts had taken him to that observation. Just then young Tess parted the doors and stepped in to offer more food. Had Decker heard her approach? Jonna refused to talk about the servants in front of them as if they were deaf to what was being said. She waited until Tess quietly left again before she answered. "Five or six, I think. I have as many white servants. You'd have to ask Mrs. Davis. She hires them. I leave the running of the house up to her."

"They're all free men and women, I assume," he said idly.

That comment brought Jonna's sharp-eyed glance. "I should hope so, Captain Thorne. I don't hold with abolitionist talk if that's what you're getting at."

"I wasn't aware I was getting at anything," he said. "It was merely an observation. But since you mentioned it, Boston is quite a stronghold in the abolitionist movement. It wouldn't be surprising if you shared some of those beliefs."

She made a small dismissive motion with her hand. "You're speaking of people like William Lloyd Garrison and his following. Grant thinks he has a level head, but I think Garrison is a fanatic. I take a more tempered view."

"And that is?"

"I don't agree with slavery, but I also don't agree with legislating morality—and that's what Garrison and those like him want. If they can't get it done legally, then they're not above using illegal means. What do they call it? The Underground Road?"

"I think it's the Underground Railroad now," Decker said.

Jonna nodded. "Yes, I believe you're right. Conductors. Stations. Passengers. They can dress it up any way they like, it's all against the law. This country still recognizes slave states and even allows territories to enter the Union under those conditions. Short of taking up arms, I don't see that there is any way to stop it. Remington Shipping does a lot of business in Southern ports, as you well know. I suppose I could make a stand and only take on cotton that's been picked by freeborn men and women, but we'd be out of business in two years, perhaps sooner. It's not prudent to bite the hand that feeds you, Captain. Remember that."

Decker's keen blue eyes narrowed. He was thoughtful. "I wonder if your thinking is perhaps dictated more by your business sense than it is by moral imperative."

Jonna's response was unhesitating. "Business is a moral imperative."

"I see," he drawled.

"I doubt it."

Decker gave her an arch look. "Oh?" he asked softly. "What do you mean by that?"

Jonna opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, thinking better of what she had been about to say. Decker Thorne was her guest. She would not insult him. "Nothing," she said. "It's of no consequence."

But Decker knew it was. He had been treated with nothing but respect since he had been in her home, yet Decker had always known that Jonna Remington didn't respect him. It hadn't been that way at first. When he'd come to the United States and presented himself at Remington Shipping, looking for work, she had not regarded him differently than any of the other men working for her. In fact, he thought, she hadn't noticed him much at all.

That was as he'd wanted it to be. No favors. No additional expectations. He'd been determined to make his own way. It was the last thing he'd told his brother when he'd left London three years ago.

It had been Colin's idea that he seek out Jonna Remington and apply for a position with her company. Decker had had no experience with ships or sailing, but he had confidence in his ability to learn. What was more, he knew Colin had confidence in his ability as well.

Decker had introduced himself only as Pont Epine, taking the name that Marie Thibodeaux had christened him with when she was teaching him French. It was an awkward translation of his own name and eventually had been Anglicized to Ponty Pine.

It was as Ponty Pine that he had worked for Remington Shipping for the first six months. Then, in an innocent correspondence between his brother and his employer, his identity had been betrayed. Jonna Remington had summoned him to her office and had asked directly if he'd intended to make a fool of her.

Decker had never given any consideration to Jonna's feelings about his deception. Had he considered them at all, he would have concluded that she would have had no feelings. He was aware of the relationship that existed between the Remingtons and his brother. He knew that as a boy Colin had saved Jonna from drowning and so had been given every opportunity to advance his career in the aftermath of that rescue. He knew that Colin had made his fortune working for the Remingtons and that his brother's eventual return to London, his marriage to Mercedes Leyden, even his success in finding Decker, all could be tied to Remington Shipping.

What Decker hadn't anticipated was that Jonna Remington would dislike him so much for not being Colin.

She had never said as much, and Decker suspected she might never say it. Hell, he acknowledged to himself, she might not even know it.

So he goaded her from time to time. Tweaked her a little here and there, just to see if he could make her say the words aloud. She never did though, or at least she hadn't yet. Watching her now, her features very still and grave, the dark centers of her violet eyes giving away nothing, Decker was again struck by what a private person she was.

More than private, he thought. Alone. Lonely.

"I think it is important," he said, picking up the threads of their conversation. Silence had hovered over the table for too long. "What do you mean I don't understand that business is a moral imperative?"

Jonna set down her water goblet without drinking. "Do you really want to hear this, Captain Thorne? I promise you I will speak plainly."

"I can take it, Miss Remington."

Still, she hesitated. They were not in her office on the waterfront. Decker Thorne was not an employee here. He had saved her life and then come to her assistance only to be laid out cold for it. His recovery had been slow as a fever took him, and two days past the point where she had regained all her strength, he was still fighting for his life. She was not unaware of the debt she owed him, yet, she wondered, had anything really changed?

His act of heroism on the wharf made no essential difference in the way she thought of him. In all likelihood that behavior was an aberration. For all she knew, Jack Quincy had pushed him into the water. What choice did he have then but to attempt a rescue?

Some part of her knew she was being unfair, but she wouldn't consider it now. It was far simpler to interpret his actions to fit her view of him than it was to change her view.

"Very well, Captain," Jonna said. "I have doubts that you know much about the morality of work. Until you came to Remington Shipping it's my understanding that you never worked in your life. I'm aware that you've been jailed for stealing and that you might well have been hanged for your crimes. I believe it was a lucky encounter with your brother that kept that from happening, and as I told you before, I think you know how to command good fortune."

Jonna paused, wondering if she should go on. Except for the smallest hint of a smile edging the corners of his mouth, Decker's features were passive. That flicker of amusement decided her. She wanted to wipe it off his face. "I like to know the people who work for me, and I suppose I know you no more or less than any of my other employees. What I do know I don't particularly trust. I don't think I need to count the silver or inventory the linens while you're in my home. My sense is that though you tease us with your criminal past from time to time, those days are behind you. By the same token, I don't believe you're a reformed man. You may not take from others any longer, but neither do you give anything. Your attitude, indeed, is quite as careless as your smile.

"Frankly, I find it irritating, but then, you know that. I'm very aware you do it for just that reason. I only regret that I can't seem to ignore it. It would be so much less amusing for you."

Jonna's appetite had fled. More than that, she was drained. Decker was simply studying her now, his expression carefully neutral. She had no idea what he was thinking, and perversely, she wished he would flash that reckless grin. She pushed her plate away, then came to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, Captain Thorne, I—"

"Sit."

Her head snapped back at the tone as much as the command. "I beg your pardon?" It was a stupid thing to say, given that her reaction clearly told him he had been heard. Jonna didn't wait for him to point that out. She sat.

"Good," he said. "Now I have something to tell you." Decker leaned back in his chair, his posture casual as he crossed his long legs at the ankles. "I told you I could take it, Miss Remington. I have no intention of mounting a blistering defense on my behalf. Is that why you were going to run off? Because you thought I meant to argue with you?"

It was, though Jonna didn't like to admit it. "I'm weary of arguments today," she said.

"Jack Quincy told me once that I could sooner turn back a prevailing wind than make you change your opinion. I've always found his counsel to be sound. It certainly seems to hold true for your opinion of me." He pointed to the plate she had pushed away. "Now eat something, then tell me who was brave enough to beard the lioness."

Feeling his eyes on her, Jonna was flooded with an unfamiliar sense of calm. He sat there across from her, unruffled and unrattled by anything she had said. To be that certain of oneself, she thought wistfully, and knew she envied this about him as well. Her eyes dropped away from his untroubled gaze and went to her plate. She picked up her fork and continued eating, surprised to find that she was hungry after all.

"Did Jack really say that about me?" she asked when she had finished most of what was on her plate.

"Would you believe me?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "Yes, I would."

"They were Jack's words as near as I can remember them," he confirmed.

She thought about that. "A blistering defense would serve no purpose, would it?"

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. "None."

Tess arrived to clear the table and bring cherry cobbler and coffee. The dishes rattled in her hands as she removed them. She was aware that her presence, where it had been welcomed before as an interruption, was now an intrusion. There was waiting in the silence, and Tess bobbed her curtsy and hurried from the room as quickly as she could.

The moment to laugh had passed, but Jonna wished it could have been otherwise. She poured a small measure of milk in her cup. "Would you prefer liqueur with your coffee?" she asked. "There's some in the sideboard."

"No, nothing. Thank you." He drank his coffee black. "Tell me about all the arguing today," he said.

She found she did want to talk about it. "Most of it was the usual sort of thing that goes on every day. Mr. Edwards wanted another price for his shipment of finished goods, one that was totally unacceptable to me. He thought he could get a better price with the Sheridan Line, then he remembered that Grant wasn't likely to undercut me. That frustrated him, and he started complaining that we controlled all the shipping. I told him to go to Garnet or Canning if he didn't like my prices. In the end he knew he was getting a fair deal from me, but I heartily disliked having to prove it to him."

Decker imagined that some days she was energized by the challenge. Today, he could tell, had been different. "And then?" he prompted.

So Jonna recounted the squabbles and haggling she had been through. Even leaving out her quarrel with Grant, she found herself unburdened at the end.

Decker listened without comment. His posture was at odds with his formal surroundings. Loose and relaxed, his eyes lazily hooded, he was a study in contrasts to the rigid high-backed chair he sat in. He held his coffee cup in front of him, never once replacing it in the saucer, while he heard Jonna out.

He wondered if she would tell him everything. The odds were against it. She spoke soberly about her day, as if each decision she'd made had the same magnitude of consequence for Remington Shipping. She used few gestures as she talked; mostly her slender hands rested quietly in her lap. Her voice was cool and steady, and her spine remained as inflexible as the chair under her.