Abruptly she stood. “I believe I shall take a short walk before my husband returns.”
“But, ma’am, you’ve hardly touched your tea!”
“I’ll take it later.” She had no money and no sense of where to go in the little town, but the idea of remaining in the room alone, waiting for Michel, was now intolerable. “If Mr. Geary should return before I do, you may tell him I shall see him at supper.”
Still fearing that the Cartwrights might stop her at Michel’s orders, she hurried past the serving girl and down the stairs, her skirts fluttering around her. The door to the yard was propped open, and as she rushed through it, nearly running, she felt the same wild exhilaration that she had when she’d escaped from Michel that first day, from the barn. But this time would be different, for this time she would succeed.
She walked swiftly down the street, pausing at the corner to get her bearings. Though Seabrook was new to her, the plan of its streets was similar to every other New England town that had grown around a harbor, with every street either parallel or perpendicular to the waterfront. Toward the east she’d seen the tops of masts and furled sails from her window in the inn, and she headed toward them now.
Ships were familiar to her, a welcome reminder of home, and though she briefly considered looking for the town’s constable, she believed she’d be more likely to convince a seaman than some puffed-up townsman that she was a Sparhawk. Seabrook wasn’t that far from Newport. Surely somewhere in this little port she’d find one sailor who knew her father, one man who’d see the family resemblance in her face and believe she was who she claimed.
But just as every street in a seaport led to the waterfront, every waterfront also tended to be the least reputable section of town, and Seabrook was no exception. Though much smaller than Newport, Seabrook had its handful of block-front warehouses and countinghouses, chandleries and outfitters, as well as taverns, rum shops and rooming houses to suit every sailor’s taste and purse.
With the summer afternoon nearly done, workers from the docks and shipyard and a smattering of fishermen were beginning to trudge through the narrow streets to their homes and families. Others stayed behind to meet friends in the rum shops and bring their filled tankards to the well-worn benches outside in the fading sun.
Steadfastly Jerusa walked past them with her head high, ignoring their comments as best she could. Men had always admired her—she couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t—but this kind of crude, leering invitation called after her was new. Her cheeks flaming and her heart beating faster, she wished she had at least a wide-brimmed bonnet to hide within, or, better yet, a cloak that covered her clear to her feet, and longingly she thought of the gun she’d left in Michel’s saddlebag. Perhaps she should have brought it, after all. They wouldn’t have dared shout at her if she’d been carrying that.
At last she reached the water itself, the wide, shining mouth of the Connecticut River, where it emptied into the sea. But unlike Newport, there were only three stubby wharves jutting out into the water instead of a dozen, and only four vessels of any size tied to them. She hesitated, her grand plan disintegrating in the face of reality. How was she to know which of these sloops and schooners might harbor a friendly captain who could help her? Perhaps it wasn’t too late to find the constable, after all.
“Do ye be lost now, lassie?” asked a man behind her, and before Jerusa could reply, he’d seized her arm in his hand. “Lookin’ for a man t’give ye proper guidance?”
“I’m not your lassie, and I’m not looking for any sort of guidance that you could offer.” Jerusa wrenched her arm free, rubbing it where his fingers had dug into her skin, and glared at the man. Dressed in dirty canvas breeches and a striped shirt with a checkered waistcoat, he was young, her age or close to it, with a ruddy face that nearly matched his dark red hair and beard. “And whatever would give you the idea that I’m lost?”
The man grinned suggestively in return. “On account o’ ye wanderin’ about like a lamb without her mama, that’s why. Or whyever.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Oh, I’ve no mind to be ridiculous,” he said, his grin widening. “Ye don’t have no bonnet, nor bucket, nor basket, an’ ye be dressed fine as for th’ Sabbath. Finer, maybe.”
Mentally Jerusa cursed her lack of forethought. The man had every right to judge her the way he had, and she caught herself trying to imagine what Michel would say in such a situation.
Sweet Almighty, hadn’t she found trouble enough with lies and deceit? Had she forgotten what it was like to tell the truth?
The man was inching closer, his hand hovering toward hers to take it. “Yer shepherd shouldn’t have let ye roam, pretty little lamb, or some great wolf might carry ye off. Or do ye be lookin’ fer another shepherd?”
Uneasily she backed away. Behind this man were a half-dozen others that were his friends, each one grinning at her like the very wolf their leader had described.
And Lord help her, she’d never felt so much like that lost lamb.
“Come along now, little lamb,” coaxed the red-haired man. “The lads an’ I will see ye be treated right proper.”
The devil take the truth. These backwater sailors wouldn’t believe it anyway. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, drawing on every bit of her mother’s training on how a lady should stand to earn the respect of others.
“I don’t need your assistance, sirrah, and I never did,” she said imperiously as she pointed to the vessel tied to the nearest dock. “I’ve business with the master of that schooner there, and I’d be obliged if you would let me pass so I don’t keep the gentleman waiting.”
Briefly the man glanced over his shoulder and then back to her with disbelief written over every feature. “Ye have business wit’ old man Perkins? A sweet little lass such as ye wit’ him?”
“Captain Perkins’s age has no bearing on my business,” she said primly as she read the schooner’s name on her quarter-board. “All you need know is that I’m expected directly on board the Hannah Barlow.”
Crestfallen, the man shook his head as he and the others shuffled from her path. “It be beyond my reason,” he muttered unhappily. “A pretty lass wit’ old Perkins.”
Amazed though Jerusa was that her bluff had worked, she still couldn’t resist giving her skirts an extra flick as she walked past them. How Michel would have laughed to see the hangdog looks on their faces after they’d swallowed her story about this Captain Perkins!
But her triumph was short-lived as she walked along the wharf and had her first close look at the Hannah Barlow. The gangway was unguarded, without a single crewman in sight on the deck, and cautiously Jerusa stepped aboard. Only a piebald dog with a cropped tail growled at her halfheartedly before he lowered his head and went back to sleep in a nest of old canvas beside the mainmast.
Not good signs, she thought uneasily, and wondered if she’d traded one unfortunate situation for a second that was worse. Thanks to her father and brothers, Jerusa’s knowledge of ships was far better than most women’s, and what she saw of this schooner did little to reassure her. Her paint was faded and peeling, her planking stained, her lines bunched in haphazard bundles rather than the neat coils that any conscientious captain would have demanded.
“What ye gawkin’ at, missy?” growled a man sitting slumped on the steps of the companionway. Hidden by the shadows, she’d missed him before, and from the meanness in his eyes she wished she’d missed him still. “Yer kind’s not wanted on board here. Go along, off with ye! Take yer stinkin’ trade to them who’ll buy it.”
“I’m not—not what you think,” said Jerusa with as much dignity as she could muster. “My name is Jerusa Sparhawk, of Newport in Rhode Island.”
“Oh, aye, and I’m the friggin’ royal