Love's Rescue (14 page)

“How can I be?”

She looked at the piano with such longing that he wanted to play the song that would bring back her contentment. Unfortunately, a song would only soothe for a short while. Elizabeth needed to heal. He understood such grief, for he had endured it also. “You miss your mother.”

“How can I not?”

Though he knew no words could soothe, he said them anyway. “She was a good woman.”

Elizabeth averted her gaze. “I want to be like her, filled with grace and compassion, but I make such a blunder of things.” She swiped at her face.

He had no idea what was bringing the tears to her eyes. He only knew that he wanted to wipe those tears away, and that was dangerous thinking. “You’re very much like her. You have grace and compassion.”

“But not peace,” she said with a hint of desperation. “Never peace.”

“God grants peace.”

“Does He? That is not my experience.”

Rourke had suffered his own shortage of peace lately. Did that mean he’d strayed? Surely bringing a slave to freedom counted as righteous in God’s estimation. Yet with Elizabeth standing before him fragile as a newly opened bloom, he recognized why peace evaded him. Desire. For all his plans to do what was right, he still wanted to love her, to hold her, to make her his wife. He would throw away every ounce of righteousness for that one taste of desire. Yet that was wrong. Love considers first the beloved. No wonder he knew no peace.

Elizabeth gazed at the chapel’s rude altar, perhaps unaware that the poor, the sick, and the enslaved worshiped here. “I know little peace of late.”

She had echoed the words of his heart and unwittingly confirmed what he must do. Love cannot live in tainted soil.

She stared ahead, not at him. “Why would she get yellow fever after all these years? Newcomers catch it. They’re the ones who die. Not someone who has lived here for years. Not my mother.”

Her anguish knifed through Rourke. “It can afflict anyone.”

Instead of consoling, his words brought tears. She pressed her sleeve against her eyes. Though she sobbed in silence, the shudder of her shoulders betrayed her heartache. He could not sit at a piano when the woman he adored suffered.

The jasmine scent grew stronger the nearer he came.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but words were inadequate.

She shook her head.

“She was a fine woman,” he tried again, blundering badly. He stood within reach, longing to touch her, yet fearing the repercussions if he did. “She loved the Lord and is with Him now.”

“How do you know?” She lifted a tearstained face torn with anguish. “How can you be certain?”

He couldn’t, of course. None but God knew a person’s heart. Yet he’d seen signs. “She helped the less fortunate. She visited the sick at the hospital.”

Her coral lips curved into a perfect oval. “Is that enough?”

It wasn’t. Only faith in Jesus Christ could guarantee salvation. “Our Lord is enough.”

She collapsed again into wracking sobs, and this time he could not restrain himself. He wrapped his arms around her. She fell against him, the jasmine enveloping him so completely that he lost all sense of time. He wanted to stand there forever. He held her, rubbing her back gently as if she were a child. In some ways she was.

“It will get better with time.” At least it had for him. Occasionally the aching loss still rolled over him, but it struck less frequently now. Perhaps the time had finally come to share the pain of that loss. “I still miss my father, but I don’t think of him every day anymore.”

“Your father?” The candlelight flickered in her eyes. “I didn’t know he passed on.”

“Last year.” His throat constricted. He couldn’t say the rest, not even to Elizabeth. “It was a difficult year, but it gets better.”

“I hope you’re right.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and the shock of her touch nearly cost the last of his control.

Drawn from painful memories to the much more pleasurable present, he traced a finger down her temple and around her ear. “It will.”

Her head lifted from his shoulder, and a pocket of cold came between them. “In time and with effort and dedication.”

She will obey her father’s wishes.

The thought startled him. This Elizabeth was not the carefree girl of four years ago. This Elizabeth clung to the strictures of society. He had waited for her for four years. Would she wait a year for him? His heart hoped she would, but his head—and all the evidence he’d seen thus far—said she wouldn’t.

The moon had transited enough to now stream through the doorway, turning her to marble. Cold, hard stone.

He removed her hands from his neck and stepped away.

She reached for him like a child to a parent. “Don’t let go.”

“I must.” He could not trust himself to explain further.

“But don’t you understand? I-I-I care for you. Don’t you . . . ?”

Her desperation broke his heart. She could not know the emotions that warred inside him, how much he wanted to confirm her dearest hopes. He had waited four years to do so, but Anabelle’s life was in his hands. He could not promise Elizabeth anything, nor could he tell her why.

“I must leave.” He backed away.

The last fragment of hope died in her eyes. She staggered back, tears pooling, yet the old Elizabeth reappeared in the stiffened shoulders and jutted chin. “I understand.” Her voice wavered. “I understand perfectly. You don’t care.”

He could not look in her eyes. Agreeing would be the kindest thing to do. It would sting for the moment but eventually heal over. It would also be a lie. “I must go.”

When she discovered that he had sailed away and would not
return for a full year, her anger would flash and her affection would wither.

A sob hiccuped out of her.

He turned from her before he changed his mind.

Her footsteps raced away as the candle sputtered and died.

R
ourke hadn’t answered her. He hadn’t insisted he loved her or even cared for her. No, he’d let her stand there raw and vulnerable. Then he’d looked away before firing the final volley. He had to leave, as if being near her was intolerable. He’d even turned his back on her.

Elizabeth carried that pain home with her. She woke up to it—and to a raging dispute in the pantry between Aunt Virginia and Anabelle.

She could not face her aunt this morning, not when she knew Anabelle had broken curfew and left the house after midnight. It was getting more and more difficult to defend her friend.

Elizabeth still ached from Rourke’s rejection. She could not bear to see another soul, so she escaped to the only room no one would think to search—her mother’s bedchamber. She turned the knob, and tightness gripped her chest. What would she find inside? Often the bedding, the clothes, and even the furnishings of a yellow fever victim were burned. Was it all gone? Were the miniature and the portrait in Father’s study the only things that remained of her mother?

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Time seemed to have stood still inside the room. Her mother’s brushes lay on her dressing table exactly where she must have left them. The bristles were even turned up—so they would stay stiff, Mother had always claimed. Elizabeth stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. A gentle breeze tickled her cheeks. The air smelled antiseptic, of vinegar and lime. She wandered to the dressing table where a saucer was filled with water mixed with chloride of lime. She’d seen this used near coffins and in sickrooms to purify the air. She drew the stopper from the bottle of rose water. The fragrance brought a trace of her mother near, as if she had whispered past and floated out the open windows.

Open windows. That meant Florie kept the room clean. Mother’s favorite quilt, appliquéd with oleander blooms, topped the bed. The piles of pillows were plumped and freshly covered with crisp linens. Mama’s Bible lay open on her writing table, which had been pulled beside the bed.

Elizabeth glanced at the page. Psalms. The twenty-third.

Mother knew she would not live. Yet nothing in the room spoke defeat. The light cotton curtains billowed in the breeze. A vase of brilliant orange-red Turk’s Caps graced her writing desk. The blotter stood ready beneath the open Bible. Ink pot and pens waited in the upper right corner. A blue satin gown hung at the ready, as if she expected to go to a soiree the next day.

Elizabeth let the tears well in her eyes. “I miss you, Mama.”

The breeze carried her whisper around the room and out into the shimmering blue sky.

“Why?” A sob escaped. “How could you die? You were here too long to let yellow fever take you. Did you give up? Was it because I disappointed you?” She pressed her wadded handkerchief to her face. It wiped away the tears but not the ques
tions. “Didn’t you know that I would need you? Why did you have to go?”

She sank onto the edge of the bed. A teardrop splashed against the blotter. She swiped at it, but it had already soaked in, marring the pristine surface. Mother was so careful in her writing. She never left an ink blot or misspelled a word. This blotter appeared unused, yet Elizabeth had received a letter from her dated a week before she perished. Had Mother kept her letters?

Elizabeth pulled open the smaller drawer. Extra pens and nibs were neatly arranged beside two bottles of ink. The larger drawer contained the letterhead, embossed with “Mrs. Charles Benjamin” and a floral flourish. It also contained letters received. Elizabeth’s letters sat in front, tied by a bright blue silk ribbon. Her most recent letter had been written nearly six months ago, three months before Mother’s death. If Elizabeth had been a good daughter, she would have written each day.

She slammed the drawer shut and drew in a shaky breath. Maybe she shouldn’t have looked through the desk. Memories only intensified the pain.

Oh, to hear her mother’s voice again, to know what she was thinking. She had encouraged Elizabeth to keep a diary, advice that Elizabeth had not followed. Surely if Mother advocated writing, she would have kept one herself. Then where could it be? There wasn’t one in the writing desk. The dressing table drawer contained pins and combs and paste jewelry.

Her gaze landed on the washstand. Though the pitcher and basin waited atop the little table, it also had a drawer, generally used for soap and creams. Elizabeth pulled it open but found only the usual toilette articles. She sank to the floor. No diary. Nothing at all written in her mama’s hand. That seemed odd. For a woman who loved to write, who sent Elizabeth several
letters each week, surely there would be something of her writing in the room.

Unless someone had removed it.

Elizabeth’s stomach turned. Who and why? If they hadn’t burned the curtains and bedding, they wouldn’t burn her diary. Then where was it? Had Father found and kept it?

Her head ached and her feet were going numb. She unfolded her legs. Mother and Father did not display emotion in public or before their children. She could not remember Father holding Mother or comforting her beyond handing her a handkerchief and telling her to gather herself. But a calm public face could hide deep passions. Perhaps losing her had hit Father particularly hard. He might need to hold on to Mother’s words.

“Elizabeth!” Aunt Virginia called up the stairs.

Under no circumstances did Elizabeth want her aunt in this room. She rose, but her feet were still tingling. They gave way, and she grabbed at the washstand for support. Her fingers caught the drawer handle just before she landed on her backside. Her momentum pulled the drawer out, spilling its contents.

“What’s going on?” Aunt Virginia called out from much nearer.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth yelled as she stuffed the contents back into the drawer. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

She knew Aunt Virginia wouldn’t settle for that, so she shoved the drawer back into the stand. It wouldn’t close. She tried again, assuming she hadn’t gotten it aligned properly. Still it wouldn’t close. Over and over she tried with the same result. Something was jamming the back of the opening. She pulled out the drawer and verified that the contents were all in place. That being the case, she stuck her hand into the opening and felt around. Her fingers settled on something stuck in the back of the opening. By wiggling and tugging, she was able to remove
a small book covered in black leather. A glance at the first page confirmed this belonged to her mother.

The missing diary had been found.

“Where are you?” Aunt Virginia huffed from the hallway, clearly out of breath from climbing the stairs.

Elizabeth slid the drawer back into place and tucked the diary in the pocket of her dressing gown. Whatever Mother had written must wait for now. How the diary had gotten jammed behind the drawer was a mystery, but she was glad she’d found it.

“Elizabeth?” Aunt Virginia sounded perturbed.

After padding across the rug, Elizabeth smoothed the quilt and eyed the adjoining door into Father’s room. He would be gone to work by now. She tiptoed across the room and slipped through the door. In seconds she darted into the hallway behind Aunt Virginia, who was standing in the doorway to Elizabeth’s room.

“You were looking for me?”

Aunt Virginia jumped. “Goodness! You startled me.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

Thankfully Aunt Virginia launched into a tirade over Anabelle’s insolence and neglected to ask why Elizabeth had been in her father’s room. Elizabeth tried to listen, but the entire time she longed to read the little diary secreted in her pocket.

Town Marshal Wright ambled up the dock as if he had no purpose in mind, but his path led directly to Rourke. What had happened now?

“Load the rest of the supplies into the boat,” Rourke said to John.

His mate grinned. “Got company, I see.”

Rourke stretched his stiff back. Lowering supplies into the
ship’s boat at low tide gave him a backache these days. Yet another sign that he needed to get out of the business.

“Good news, Marshal?” he called out when Wright got within earshot.

The man didn’t reveal his reason for the visit until he stood eye to eye with Rourke. “Marshal Maloney tells me the auction date has been set for the salvage from the
Victory
.”

“It has?” Rourke wondered why the federal marshal hadn’t informed him directly.

“Seems the plaintiffs removed their objections.” Wright’s dark eyes harbored misgivings. “Mighty peculiar, if you ask me. Once a man goes to the bother of hiring a lawyer, seems he’d want to follow through.”

“It would seem so.”

Wright grunted, clearly not satisfied with the outcome of the case. He glanced over the edge of the wharf at Rourke’s loaded boat. “Looks like you’re planning to head out.”

“Only after you tell me I’m free to leave. Did Mr. Buetsch find his brooch?”

“No. Claims he doesn’t care anymore what happened to it.” Wright eyed the ship’s boat and then the
Windsprite
at anchor in the far reaches of the harbor. “Mighty odd. Put up a fuss, press charges, and then claim not to care.” He shook his head. “I’d put down a day’s wages that it’s in someone’s hands.”

“Yes, sir.” Rourke knew better than to argue with an ornery lawman.

“On the other hand, can’t rightly hold a man for theft when there’s no evidence.”

So Benjamin had done his job. Probably talked Buetsch into recanting his charges. That ought to feel good, but the dropping of charges meant Rourke had to sail for home. Soon. With the
night of the escape ten days away, he’d have to either come up with a good reason to hang around the harbor or slip away to one of the hidden coves nearby.

“Thank you, Marshal.” He tipped a finger to his hat in acknowledgment.

“Don’t think I’ll forget,” the lawman blustered. “I’ve got my eyes on you, O’Malley, and on the pawnbrokers and jewelers. If I see anything resembling that brooch, I’ll come looking for you.” Seemingly satisfied with that threat, he moved on.

Rourke’s name hadn’t been cleared. If anything, it had been muddied.

“Good news fo’ de master,” John sang out from the boat. “Good news fo’ de mate. God be happy.”

“God might be happy, but we have work to do.” Rourke scrambled into the boat. “Let’s head out. I need to speak to the crew.”

Only the most loyal would stay with him for an unprofitable year in Bahamian waters. That could leave him very shorthanded for the crossing, but Rourke would not lie to his men. They must be made aware of his downturn in fortune. However, he couldn’t tell them the whole story quite yet. The less they knew of his plan to bring along an unexpected and illegal passenger, the safer they and his plan would be.

Still, as the boat pulled away from the wharf, a terrible emptiness settled in. He had waited four years for Elizabeth. Could she wait just one?

Elizabeth could not read the diary during the day. After speaking in private with Anabelle about her nighttime excursion, she had to endure Aunt Virginia hovering over her every move. When Caroline and her mother paid a visit, Elizabeth was glad to leave
the older women in the parlor to discuss the new ladies’ temperance league while she and her friend withdrew to the veranda.