“Further,” the boy insisted. “Headin’ ta the East ta get on a ship.”
Finley shrugged as if in wonder and moved on. He’d barely put the corner of a building between himself and the boy when he took off at a run.
To Pierce Abbot Shire Shipping Line San Francisco
Brother dear,
You may run up the flags and pop the champaign. Loath as I am to admit it, you win our wager. The Boston relations are indeed deadly dull. How a social butterfly like yourself ever managed to retain your sanity in their company for an entire month is quite beyond comprehension. Undoubtedly they were the true impetus that kept your nose to the proverbial grindstone.
Hildy and I did enjoy one bit of excitement during our blessedly brief sojourn. Someone nipped off with the family sapphires.
My own modest cache of gems remained untouched, possibly because it is so modest. No, I don’t regret selling off the better stones at the last minute to keep you flush with the bank. I believe in your scheme as I always avowed.
Besides, the boat is quite a delight and I will enjoy the profits more than an untouched dowry or all the gemstones in the world.
The captain made us quite comfortable. I’ve been proclaimed the reigning BELLE for the maiden voyage—who better qualified than this confirmed old spinster?
Shall report all the dazzling details of the trip upon docking in Liverpool.
Your loving sister,
Wyn
Aboard the Shire Liner Nereid
Boston Harbor
Eve of Departure
Garrett stood at the ship’s rail, sable wings of hair whip-ping to blind, his sight as he stared out over the vessels bobbing in the sun dappled bay. The majority of passengers lined the Nereid’s rails, where they could wave excited farewells to friends and relatives. He had taken a stance away from them, savoring his privacy for a brief while longer. Soon the ocean liner would ease away from the pier, leaving the tainted city skyline far behind. However, the social conventions that it represented would sail with them, the state preserved intact, neatly compartmentalized by the price paid for a ticket. His own place among the elite was guaranteed, if not by the location of his state-room, then by his name and the honored invitation he had received to dine at the captain’s table.
He had Deegan to thank for that. Garrett grinned grimly. He would have his revenge on his friend later. For now he was content to stare out to sea, his companions limited to the squawking gulls. His loyal and determined Patroclus was no doubt among the first-class passengers making up to yet another heiress.
There was an autumnal bite in the breeze. It wafted inland off the choppy waters calling to the primeval core of a man and drawing forth the memory of ancient passions in his blood. Although the New England air carried a different scent and taste on its currents, Garrett remembered having felt this particular call before. It had been when he’d taken ship from the shimmering, parched sands of Egypt, running from the fears and impotency he’d felt there. He had stayed at Sybil’s side for three long, sleepless days as her spirit lingered in her fevered, emaciated body. The day he left Sybil and North Africa behind, there had been a pleasant Mediterranean breeze filling the ship’s sails, healing his battered soul with a promise of hope. Back then the world had lain open and new before him, a host of untasted adventure available, and his for the sampling. This time Garrett felt as if Neptune’s wind had snatched away that brief hope, and was searing his soul rather than healing it
He’d kept his mind on other details in the weeks since receiving the wire from home. Consulting with bankers, he’d arranged backing for the mine he’d visited in Brazil and the railroad he’d helped survey in Mexico. Deegan had pitched in, making travel arrangements, writing letters, to all intents and purposes assuming the duties of a secretary. But, although he was doing the work of one, Galloway refused to officially accept the post when it was offered once more. He preferred to remain a companion, albeit a nearly constant one. Within a week, they’d been on a train bound for Wyoming Territory, and from there, along the steel rails to Boston town.
In all, it had taken seven weeks to put his affairs in order. Garrett wished it had been longer. He still wasn’t prepared to face a life at Hawk’s Run.
Perhaps he never would be.
Once he’d thought of this voyage as his last reprieve. The final chance he would have to be the man he wished to be. The arrangements Deegan had made destroyed that hope.
“Damn, but you live under a lucky star,” Galloway had announced upon their arrival days earlier in Boston.
Having nursed depression over his future with the better part of a bottle of whiskey the night before, Garrett hadn’t felt particularly lucky. He’d managed to crawl out of bed and dress, but the drapes in the hotel suite remained tightly closed against the light of day. He barely squinted at his friend before closing his eyes again and covering them with his arm. “I’m quite sure that star fell on me last night,” Garrett said.
“So happens I’ve got a friend who runs a shipping line,” Deegan rambled on enthusiastically. “I checked in with Pierce’s office here and they’ve got berths available on a steamer pulling out on its maiden voyage.”
“Just what I deserve. A coffin in steerage,” Garrett groaned.
Deegan went to the window and threw the drapes open to let the sun spill in, bringing with it glorious pain to Blackhawk’s already throbbing head. “Hell, no,” Dig had insisted. “I told them who you were and got the Shire Line’s equivalent of the President’s Suite.”
His destiny was beyond recall now. His trunks had been delivered aboard the Nereid earlier that day and were resting untouched in the elaborately decorated stateroom. Rather than enjoy the comforts his station in life afforded, Garrett had opted for an isolated corner of the deck in the hope that the breeze would renew his spirit.
Since it had turned traitor, he watched a pair of gulls ride the wind currents.
They looked stationary, as if they were toys suspended by strings, their wings spread wide, their bodies dipping occasionally as the master puppeteer manipulated wires to give them a semblance of life.
Fate was his puppeteer, Garrett mused. Deegan was the current stage manager, pushing him to assume the mantle he had shunned in the past. The estate itself would complete the transition, closing all doors behind him. There would be few moments like this in the coming days, the coming years. He had a part to play. His lines were rusty from disuse, but he’d been born for the role. Bred for it. The richly appointed stateroom, the hand-tailored clothing, the seat at the captain’s table—they were the props, they set the stage. From this day forward he was no longer a man like any other, he was Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.
The gulls tired of their game. One folded back its wings and dove into the water only to emerge with dinner in its beak a moment later. The other bird fluttered out among the anchored fleet of merchantmen and soon disappeared from sight.
The steam-powered engines had come alive during his reverie, Garrett noticed. They sent a thrumming through the ship that translated itself through the boards of the deck. There was no turning back now. No chance to lose himself. He was committed as never before.
The crowds at the rails nearest the dock sent up cries of excitement, of pleasure, of farewell. With the roar came a shift in the air. The weight in his soul lightened briefly. He’d misjudged Neptune after all. Perhaps if he stayed on deck long enough, the breeze would continue to offer his heart this temporary surcease.
If