If I Wait For You Read online

  Her mother, her flawless white hands trembling slightly as she cut her meat, was impeccably dressed, her hair neatly gathered beneath a snood that perfectly matched the color of her navy blue gown. Evelyn sipped her claret as if it were the finest champagne, laying her glass soundlessly back upon the table.

  “Throat was cut,” John said through the heavy silence, and Sara jumped. “Wonder if he squealed like a pig before he died?”

  Even Sara, who had seen her father misbehave before, was shocked at his obvious effort to upset her mother, who’d gone frighteningly pale at her father’s words.

  “Papa, perhaps…” and she stopped when her father glared at her. His fierce look immediately softened, and he offered a lopsided smile.

  “He was a strapping lad,” he said, his voice softer, but somehow more vicious. “Down from Vermont. A farm boy thinking he’d find his fortune on a whaler. He had blond hair, blue eyes.” He nodded toward Evelyn. “Like your mother there. They might have been…” He paused as if trying to find the right words, and Sara sensed her mother stiffen, “…brother and sister. He was a sociable sort. Friendly. Real friendly. Especially to the ladies.” He smiled up at Sara’s mother who sat unmoving and silent, as if her father were beating her into submission with his innocuous words. “He had many, many lady friends, so I heard,” he said with a sneer. He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with Sara. “Some, I’ve heard, were married ladies.”

  Sara, her eyes wide, gasped. “No.”

  John leaned back, a merry twinkle in his eye, and Sara relaxed. “Can you imagine, a married woman, a much older woman, cuckolding her husband with a Vermont farm boy?”

  “Perhaps one of the sea captain’s wives?” Sara asked, suddenly happy to be sharing such a scandalous conversation with her father, even if it meant upsetting her mother. She never got to gossip with girls her own age, so busy was she running their household, and was openly thrilled to get some inside information on, of all things, a murder.

  “Perhaps,” he said vaguely, and looked at Evelyn with hooded eyes.

  “Do the police have any idea who might have killed the boy?” Sara asked, already thinking that one of the irate husbands might have done the deed. Her father immediately confirmed her belief, and Sara congratulated herself on her deductive reasoning.

  “It is almost a certainty that one of the husbands killed the young man,” he said, an odd smile on his hard lips. “But I wonder, why he didn’t choose to kill his wife instead?”

  Evelyn stood suddenly, so suddenly, she nearly over-ended her chair. “I believe I’ve had enough of this lurid conversation. If you’ll excuse me.” Her voice trembled, her forehead held a sheen of perspiration even though the night had grown markedly cooler.

  “Papa, you really shouldn’t tease Mother so,” Sara gently chastised.

  John’s fathomless brown eyes were pinned to the back of his hastily departing wife. Then he turned to his daughter, blinking away that fearsome look. “It is one of my few pleasures, Sara,” he’d said before taking a deep swallow of his beer.

  Her father had been taunting her mother unmercifully. She could still remember how her mother’s face had paled at his words, how she’d fled the room to escape his taunts. My God, she thought, had her father hired men to kill that young boy? Sara shook her head in denial, even as the truth of it slammed into her. It suddenly seemed too conceivable. How could she think such a thing about her own father? And yet…he’d seemed so angry and so delighted somehow about the boy’s death.

  Sara wrapped her arms around her knees, fighting the thoughts that ravaged her mind. She’d already lost her mother, she could not lose the kind memories left of her father as well. Squeezing her eyes closed, she said, over and over, “It’s not true. It can’t be true. It’s not.” And so she convinced herself that it was not true, could not be true. For if it were true, it would mean Sara was the daughter of a murderer and an adulteress, and it was all too, too much to accept. She squeezed her arms tighter about her knees and tried to give herself the comfort she so very badly needed.

  “I just need…someone,” she said aloud. Someone to hold me. She wrapped her arms about her, feeling only emptiness.

  Above her sudden activity pulled her out of her self-pity. She felt the ship move beneath her, heard the snap of sails, the shouts of the officers, footsteps pounding on the deck, and she wondered if perhaps a whale had been spotted. The door to the cabin swung open revealing a wind-tousled captain. He ignored her presence and made his way immediately to the charts, muttering under his breath about their organization.

  “I apologize for disturbing your charts. I should have known better than to touch them,” Sara said, hoping he would not hear the stuffiness of her voice.

  He turned, his eyes immediately searching her face. “You’ve been crying.”

  She was about to deny it, but stopped. The evidence of her distress would be far too obvious, so she simply nodded.

  “I hope your tears have nothing to do with what happened this afternoon, Miss Dawes.” He seemed truly concerned and Sara quickly reassured him.

  “Oh, no. I was simply giving in to a small bout of melancholy. I believe retelling one of my father’s tales brought it about.”

  One of his broad hands skimmed over the charts. “Shall I get your brother?”

  “Goodness, no,” she said with a small laugh. “I fear Zachary has no more idea of what to do with a crying woman than most men do. It makes him decidedly uncomfortable.”

  “In my experience, any attempt to stop tears will be met with more of the same,” he said, turning his attention to finding the proper chart.

  “Certainly a crying woman doesn’t want to be lectured on why she should not cry, as men are wont to do. She simply wants only one thing—to be held.”

  He turned, giving her another of those searching looks that seemed to see into her soul. “Is that what you want, Miss Dawes? To be held?”

  He was not more than five feet from her. She could smell the sea air he’d brought in with him, could see where a bit of salt spray had hit one lean cheek and dried there. And in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, to be held against that solid, male body, to lose herself in that warm embrace she could only imagine.

  “I…no,” she said, a near whisper, her gaze never faltering.

  One side of his mouth lifted. “And why is that, Miss Dawes. You are a woman, after all.”

  “I believe I might shatter.” She tried to say it lightly, but the words had a tragic, sad sound to them even with her valiant attempt.

  He went still as he looked at her. Suddenly, Sara didn’t feel sad at all, but something far more mysterious. She realized she did indeed want to be held. In that instant of recognition, she looked down at her lap and took a deep, cleansing breath. He took a step toward her and she froze.

  “Surely you would not break apart if someone held you.”

  She shook her head, one curl slipping from her braid.

  Insanity. That’s what it must be, West thought as he gazed down at this woman he wanted more than anything he could remember. I should run from this room, he thought wildly, even as he took another step toward her.

  “Then I shall prove that you will not, Miss Dawes,” he said, his voice uncommonly gruff. She looked up at him and his heart nearly beat out of his chest. So damned lovely. It couldn’t be true, surely someone had held this girl, comforted her at least, kissed those full lips that seemed to beg for a man’s touch.

  “Come here.” Madness. Oh, God, grant me strength.

  She stood, looking shy and hopeful and he drew her into his arms, letting out a shaking breath as he gazed at the ceiling again praying for virtue. She kept her arms by her sides, her face turned and lightly touching his chest, as drew her near. He placed one hand on her head, and pressed her close, while he wrapped the other arm around her back. Sara was slim, but not bony. She was all gentle curves and soft edges, and he nominated himself for sainthood at tha
t moment for not crushing her to him the way he wanted.

  She was still against him at first, as if she might dart away at any moment, and then her arms wrapped around his waist in an almost desperate way. It took all his control not to bend his head to kiss her. He allowed himself only to touch his lips to her soft, silky hair, to breathe in her clean scent, to feel how perfect she fit against him. He held her that way forever it seemed, because he knew if he moved, if he dared caress her back as he wanted to do, he would not have the strength to pull away. He’d offered her a simple embrace, and he’d be damned if he turned it into something else.

  Finally, her grip lessened and she let out a long sigh that did crazy things to his already tortured loins. “This is nice,” she whispered.

  “Mmm.” It was all he could manage at the moment. This innocent moment, he told himself harshly.

  Finally, he stepped back and gave her a smile. “Now, my girl, you have been held and I see you are still in one piece.”

  To his great dismay, her eyes filled with tears. Seeing his panic-stricken face, Sara laughed.

  “You needn’t worry, captain. I will not demand another embrace.”

  “Thank God,” he said with exaggerated relief, making her laugh again. “Well, I must complete the task I came here for. We’ve had a wind shift, and if she continues to blow this way, Cape Verde, not the Azores, will be our first stop.”

  It took some time before he was able to find the proper chart, and by the time he did, he was thinking far less charitable thoughts of Sara than when she was in his arms. To make matters worse, each time he pulled out a chart and found it not the proper one, she offered to find the chart for him.

  Finally, his temper frayed, he shouted, “By all that’s holy, Miss Dawes, if you ever touch these charts again, I’ll chain you in the hold.”

  “I have apologized, Mr. Mitchell,” she said, all haughty and completely unrepentant as far as West could discern.

  “An apology will not find me the proper chart,” he shot back, feeling better each moment. It was far better to be at odds with the woman than to be holding her in his arms. He finally felt back in control. What insanity drove him to hold her, to tempt fate the way he had? My God, she’d not been on this ship two weeks and already he was practically mauling her.

  After he left the cabin, he stopped in the darkened dining room and prayed, long and fervently, for God to grant him the strength and moral character to not break his promises to his third mate and fiancée. Prayer had saved his sanity before, and would save him now, he reasoned. It had to.

  Chapter FIVE

  Pity. That’s all it had been. For in the days that followed, not only did Captain Mitchell not touch her, he rarely even looked her way. Even in the evenings, when he returned to the cabin to lay down in his bed with a tired sigh, he rarely spoke except to bid her good night. He somehow knew she was awake, though Sara thought she had become adept at pretending sleep.

  At first, Sara spent her long days in the cabin sewing. She thanked goodness the Julia was well-prepared for a long journey for nearly everything she needed she found. Within days, Sara had two bodices, two skirts, two petticoats, two pairs of drawers, a chemise, and a wool vest to wear beneath her bodice for warmth. The vest protected her modesty a bit, for without stays, Sara felt practically unclothed. She’d also pieced together a bulky wool coat, this in dark gray. Everything was terribly plain and unstylish. Without a crinoline, her skirt fell naturally around her slim hips, another oft-lamented defect noted by her mother. “My goodness, Sara, you’re shaped like a little boy.”

  In the ship’s store, she did find large bone buttons, which she fastened to her bodice. It was the only bit of adornment on her otherwise plain dress, and she’d thought more than once she could easily have passed for a Quaker. Wearing unstylish clothes had never worried Sara overmuch. She’d been too busy to concern herself with flounces and lace and jet trim. She should be used to looking dowdy, but as she tried to catch her reflection in the small cabin mirror it seemed to her she looked shockingly plain.

  Sara scowled at her reflection. “He’d not notice you even in the finest ball gown,” she said to herself. She puffed out a sigh of disgust—not at how she looked, but why she cared.

  Pity, Sara. It was only pity that made him embrace you.

  Having completed her wardrobe, Sara had more time to go about the deck. She wandered up, surprised by the warmth of the air that swept down the hatch and hit her face in a soft rush. Then she gasped. The water was the most beautiful color she’d ever seen, a deep blue-green, so unlike the dark gray of the North Atlantic. She smiled, joy filling her. It was so lovely, so very different than anything she could have imagined. Back home, where the air was getting chilled, where the leaves were beginning to turn, she could never have fancied such a sight.

  “I’ll never get tired of looking at it,” she said as her brother made her way to her side.

  “You will.”

  “Never. How could you? It’s so beautiful.”

  “Wait until we’re two weeks into the doldrums without a breeze. You’ll pray for a cold wind and a gray sea, if only to relieve the awful heat.”

  Ignoring her brother’s dour words, Sara turned her face to the sun, a beatific smile on her face. “The air is so soft,” she said.

  “It’ll grow heavy, hot and unbearable.”

  Sara gave her brother a look of irritation. “I realize you are jaundiced, big brother, but please let me enjoy this while it lasts. You can tell me you were right later.” As she gave him another scowl, she noted a tear in his sleeve, the edges frayed. “Go below and change shirts, I’ll mend this one for you.”

  “You don’t have to, Sara. We fend for ourselves at sea.”

  Giving him a stern look, Sara pointed to the hatch. “Change.”

  That was how it started. Once Zachary’s shirt was mended, Sara noticed Mr. Mason needed a patch put on his trousers. She hinted that she could take care of the rip in little time, and within minutes, Sara had another task. She knew, somehow, West would not be pleased with her activities. He’d said in no uncertain terms that he wanted her to stay away from the men, but seeing their clothes in such disrepair was truly maddening. Sara looked about and saw a rag-tag bunch of men with rips and tears and stains. How could they stand it? she thought.

  “Mr. Mason, may I have a word with you, sir?” He was admiring his new patch at the time, looking at the piece of cloth she’d sewn there as if it had magically appeared.

  Sara guided him over to the rail, looking about furtively for West as she did. “I’ve noticed that many of the men’s clothing is in terrible condition.”

  Oliver raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. Clearly he hadn’t noticed anything amiss. “Mr. Mitchell has told me he does not want me associating with the men, and on this I will obey him. But, Mr. Mason, something must be done about those poor men’s clothing.”

  “Each man’s got a sewing kit. And most know how to use it, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  Sara gave his new patch a pointed look. “As you do, Mr. Mason?” He grunted. “I’d like to help. But I’d like to do so quietly.”

  A slow smile spread on Oliver’s wrinkled face, revealing several missing teeth. “You don’t want the captain to know.”

  Sara smiled. “It would only upset him. And I fear I must keep busy. I’ve never been idle in my life. Will you help?”

  “I will, Mrs. Mitchell. With pleasure.”

  Sara now had something to fill her endless days. Whether she sat on the deck or below, she always had a bit of sewing in her hands. And never was that bit of cloth something from the captain’s wardrobe. From her father Sara had learned that, for whatever reason, a man will wear a garment until it is in shreds before plying a needle to it. She ignored—though it was not easy—a growing tear in the seam of West’s waistcoat. Certainly West was aware of it. He had to be when he hung it on his peg each evening. She’d actually seen him push a finger through the hole before turning away. S
ara lay in her bed, her eyes pinned to that offending hole, pushing away the urge to fix it. Each time she thought about plying a needle to his waistcoat, his words came back to her: “It pleases me that you have no duties other than to stay out of my way and far from the business of this ship.”

  Staying out of West’s way had been no problem at all. But staying away from the business of the ship was not such an easy task. Sara wanted to help, and she found she was inordinately curious about every aspect of the ship. Zachary had patiently answered most of her questions, but knew little about actually sailing the ship. She discovered he had no knowledge of navigation or how to set the sails so that they caught the wind the best.

  “I’m here to catch whales, Sara, not sail.”

  Sara grumbled something about seeing little evidence of that skill, then laughed aloud at his affronted look.

  “Sara, no one can find whale better than Captain Mitchell. If we haven’t spotted a whale yet, it’s because there’re no whales to spot.”

  Sara remained unconvinced. When Zachary ran out of patience with her, she turned to Mr. Mason, who was delighted to share his knowledge with her. Sara secretly thought his delight came in part because it was fairly obvious West didn’t care for the amount of time the two spent together. The two were becoming fast friends, bound by a wicked sense of the macabre and their scheme to mend the sailors’ clothes.

  By now, Sara knew the names of all the sails and could even spot when one needed to be hauled in or unfurled. She knew when the wind was off, or had shifted making the ship’s progress a bit slower. And she knew which way the helmsman should turn the wheel to get the best part of the wind.

  “But a whaler’s not a clipper, Mrs. Mitchell. We don’t care how fast we go, just as long as we find a spout along the way.”