Love Inspired Historical November 2014 (27 page)

She pulled away from him, fluttering her fan even as her pulse stuttered. “Clay,” she said, “you cannot mean it. Boston is our home. Everyone we know is here.”

“And everyone here knows me,” he countered. “That wild Howard boy. I feel as if I can't breathe. Out west I can be my own man, a man you can be proud to call husband.”

Her heart soared. He wanted her beside him, his partner, his love. It was everything she'd ever wanted. And yet...

“I'd be proud of you here, too, Clay,” she assured him. “I know you and your father don't see eye to eye, but if you talk to him...”

His hand sliced through the air. “I've talked to him too many times. I can't be the man he expects, Allegra, and if I stay under his thumb I'll be no man at all.” He caught her close, spoke against her temple. “Come with me. For ‘I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination.'”

She loved it when he quoted the old poets such as Keats. Clayton Howard knew all the ways to turn a phrase and take away her objections. But this time, instead of sweeping her away, his touch raised a panic.

She'd just come into her own. She was somebody. How could he ask her to leave?

She pushed him back. “Clay, be reasonable. Everyone knows there's nothing but wilderness and savages beyond the Adirondacks. Boston society is the best in the nation. If you'd just try a little harder, I'm sure you could fit in.”

“That's the problem,” he said, his warm voice cooling. “I don't want to fit in, Allegra. I want more. I thought you'd want more, too.”

She could not imagine what more there might be. Boston ladies married well, bore children, entertained family and friends, supported worthy causes. How could she do that from some backwoods hovel?

“There now,” she'd said as if soothing a petulant child. “I'm sure we can discuss this another time when we've both had a chance to think about it.” She'd linked her arm with his. “They should be playing a polka soon. I know you like that dance.”

He'd touched her face with his free hand, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. “I would take any opportunity to dance with you, Allegra. My feelings won't change.”

She'd thought he meant his devotion to her would never change. But two days later, he'd left Boston, and she hadn't set eyes on him again until they'd met on the pier. It seemed Clayton Howard's devotion was to his future, not theirs. Her parents and his had encouraged her to swallow her disappointment and marry Frank. Frank, who had never argued with her, who had been her dear friend as long as she could remember. And so a month later, she and Frank had wed amid the smiling approval of Boston society, a society she could no longer abide.

She didn't remember reaching the bottom of the stairs. The touch of Clay's hand on her arm drew her up.

“Be reasonable, Allegra,” he murmured, offering a smile that would once have set her to blushing. “I have no intention of being an annoyance. But I think we both agree it's my duty to protect you.”

“Duty?” Allie shook her head. “This journey was my choice, sir. You have no duty to protect me from my future. I can handle myself on the frontier. You forget, my ancestors civilized Boston.”

Clay snorted, dropping her arm. “Is that your reason for going? You think the fine citizens of Seattle need to be civilized? There isn't a fellow in the territory who will thank you for it.”

“On the contrary,” Allie insisted. “Mr. Mercer assured us that we will be welcome additions to the city, serving to bring it to its full potential. He, sir, has a vision.”

Clay rolled his eyes. “Spare me. I've spent the last hour watching how easily Mercer's plans fell apart. No one seemed to know who had paid and who hadn't. It wouldn't surprise me if Mercer had skipped town with your money. You've been duped, Allegra. Admit it.”

Anger was pushing up inside her again. Why were her ideas never taken seriously? Why was she always the one who had to bend to another's insistence?

“Just because you dream small, Clay Howard,” she told him, “doesn't mean other men have the same narrow vision. And neither do I. I will pay you back every penny, I will allow you to spend time with Gillian, but I won't listen to another word against our plans. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

Any Boston gentleman who had borne the brunt of her anger would have begged her pardon, immediately and profusely. Clay merely lowered his head until his gaze was level with hers. Something fierce leaped behind the cool green.

“Don't expect me to jump when you snap your fingers, Allegra,” he said. “I paid your passage because this trip seems to be important to you. But I won't nod in agreement like a milk cow to everything you say. I've been to Seattle. I know the dangers of the frontier. I owe it to Frank to protect you from them.”

As if in agreement, the
Continental
shuddered, and a deep throb pulsed up through the deck. Allie was tumbling forward, her feet not her own. She landed against something firm and solid—Clay.

His arms came around her, and she found herself against his chest. His gaze met hers, seemed to warm, to draw her in. She couldn't catch her breath. Once, she'd dreamed of his embrace, his kiss.

Heat flared in her cheeks at the memory, and she pulled herself out of his arms. “You owe Frank nothing, Clay Howard. And you owe me less. If you insist on coming to Seattle with us, you'd better remember that.”

Chapter Four

C
lay paused while Allegra continued into the salon. In truth, he felt as if the jolt of the ship starting forward had knocked some of the breath out of him. It had been a long time since he'd held Allegra in his arms, and, for the sake of his sanity, it ought never to happen again. Hadn't he learned by now that he was no match for Boston society?

In fact, it was the suffocating chill of Boston high society that had driven him west, far from everything he'd ever known. He couldn't regret it. He'd climbed mountains, tops shimmering with snow, ten times the size of Beacon Hill. He'd crossed rivers wider than the Charles and more swiftly flowing. He'd met Indian chiefs with as much pride as his late father, lady prospectors with more presence than his mother. Riding across the vast prairies, he'd realized how small he was and how big the God he served.

It was God's urging that had propelled him back to Boston when Clay had received the letter telling him about Frank's death. Like the prodigal son, he'd come to make amends. He wanted to explain to his mother why he'd left, to make sure Allegra was doing all right with Frank gone. He'd taken a room at Boston's finest hotel, Parker's; bought a new suit of clothes; even hired a carriage to take him to his family home.

No fatted calf awaited him. Though his father had died several years ago, Clay had hoped his mother would receive him. But the person waiting for him in somber black in the elegant parlor was his cousin Gerald.

“A great deal has changed since you left, cousin,” he'd said, his icy blue eyes staring across the space, every blond hair pomaded back from his narrow face. “With Frank gone, I've had to take up the responsibilities you refused to honor.”

Clay's hands had fisted at the sides of his fancy suit. “I'm here now. Where's my mother?”

“Indisposed.” Gerald had all but sneered. “And quite unwilling to see you. It is my unhappy duty to inform you of the fact.”

“She has no interest in where I've been?” Clay challenged. “What I've done?”

“None,” his cousin said. “It doesn't matter where you've been. It matters that you weren't here. We all know it should have been you in that field near Hatcher's Run.”

Of course it should have been him. He was the oldest, the better rider, the best shot. He'd had the advantage of a year of military training in a school that specialized in turning willful boys into disciplined men. Frank hadn't had to attend that school. Frank was the good son, obedient, a friend to all who knew him. He didn't know why his brother had gone to war, when so many of the wealthy families paid a poorer boy to fight in their son's stead when their son had been drafted. According to the friend who had written Clay, Frank had gone down protecting others who had been wounded, considerate even to the end.

Clay raised his head. “If you've accepted responsibility for my mother and Frank's widow, I applaud you. Just know that I'm willing to help, whatever they need.”

His cousin's tight smile was the only answer.

The trip back to the hotel had been mercifully short, for all Clay's emotions ran higher than the horses on the hired coach. He'd been throwing his things back in his satchel when the bellman came to tell him that a Mrs. Howard was waiting for him downstairs.

Immediately his mind had gone to Allegra, and he pushed past the fellow in his rush to see her. But the woman who perched on one of the scarlet upholstered chairs in the hotel's ornate parlor was gray haired, her bearing cool, composed in her silver-colored gown trimmed in black lace and jet beads.

“Mother,” he said, going to her.

Gillian Howard's thin lips trembled, but she did not offer her pale cheek for his kiss. “Clayton. I thought that was you when I looked out the window. You came home.”

Was he mad to hear hope behind the words? “I wanted to talk to you,” he confirmed, sinking onto a chair beside her. “I wanted to see Allegra.”

Before he could continue, she reached out and clutched his arm, fingers tight against his sleeve.

“That's why I'm here, son,” she said, calm voice belying her hold on him. “Allegra is missing, and you're the only one who can bring her home.”

She'd gone on to explain her daughter-in-law's fascination with Asa Mercer's story about struggling Seattle and the chance of making it a paradise on earth.

“It's the same ridiculous pie-in-the-sky tale that sent you west,” she'd lamented, dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “You came back...you must know the truth. Tell her this hope in Seattle is a lie. Convince her to come home. Please, Clay, she's all I have left!”

Her pain had touched him just as Allegra's had today, yet some part of him hurt that his mother could not consider him part of the family. “I thought Gerald was taking care of everything for you,” he couldn't help commenting.

She'd lowered her gaze even as she tucked her handkerchief into her reticule. “Gerald has been a great blessing to me. He is very good about seeing that the family carries on. I cannot ask this of him.”

But she could ask it of him. Gerald was a gentleman; Clay had thrown off the label. His cousin might not be willing to do all it would take to retrieve Allegra. His mother obviously believed Clay had fewer scruples. Though Clay liked to think he was still an honorable man for all he'd chosen a different path than the one his parents had picked out for him, he could not argue that he was his mother's best tool for the job. He was more than ready to do Allegra a service, particularly if it meant saving her from the mistakes he'd made.

Now he snorted. And wasn't he doing a jolly good job of saving Allegra? Instead of sending her home to Boston, he'd aided and abetted her in running away! Shaking his head at his own behavior, he entered the lower salon. Those passengers who had not yet been assigned staterooms were clustered around a hatch at the end of the room. Allegra and her daughter were looking on, but he couldn't tell whether they were curious or concerned. He pushed himself to the center, where a pretty, petite blonde was struggling with a brass latch embedded in the floor.

On seeing him, she put on a winsome smile. “Please, sir,” she said sweetly, “would you mind helping me with this?”

The others made room for him, their gazes expectant, as if he were about to open a fabled treasure cave. Clay was more suspicious.

“What is this?” he asked, positioning himself over the hatch.

“Access to the coal bin, sir,” she replied. “I was told by Mr. Mercer to open it immediately when we set sail out of quarantine. He said it was very important.”

Clay couldn't understand why anyone needed to see into a dark, dusty coal bin, but he had to admit to curiosity as to why Mercer had thought it so important. He bent to haul on the ring, and the hatch opened. People leaned around his arm, peering into the gloom. He could see Allegra and her redheaded friend exchanging frowning glances.

“It's safe now, Mr. Mercer,” the blonde called into the void. “You can come out.”

Allegra stiffened in obvious shock, while others put their hands to their mouths. Coal-dusted fingers waved above the edge of the hole, and Clay bent to tug Asa Mercer to the floor of the salon. He was a slender man, not yet thirty, with a solemn face and a brisk manner. Now his curly reddish hair and whiskers were speckled with black, his long face striped with grime. He tugged down on his paisley waistcoat and beamed at those around him.

“The coal is well stored and sufficient for the first leg of our journey,” he reported as if he'd merely climbed into the bin to inspect it. “It appears we are under way. I look forward to a fine voyage, a very fine voyage.”

Allegra stared at him a moment, then turned her gaze to Clay's. Very likely, they'd reached the same conclusion.

She had no one to rely on but him, and she had every right to be concerned.

* * *

It was not the most auspicious start to their journey. While many of the women welcomed their benefactor, Allie couldn't shake the image of Mr. Mercer rising from the coal bin. This was the man in whom they'd placed their trust?

Catherine evidently had similar concerns. “I'm greatly disappointed in him,” she confessed as they all went to find their staterooms. “He paid his own passage, but it seems as if he promised space to anyone who asked. When it became clear not everyone would be allowed aboard, he hid to avoid telling them the truth.”

Allie glanced into one of the rooms they were passing. “I don't understand it. There can't be more than one hundred passengers aboard, and there seems to be room for at least three times that. What happened to the other people?”

“Perhaps they saw those wretched reports in the papers,” Catherine mused. “The ones claiming we'd be eaten by bears or enslaved by savages.”

Perhaps. The editorial articles had nearly made Allie change her mind. But Mr. Mercer had seemed so earnest, his vision of a settled Seattle so clear. She knew she wasn't the only woman who'd put her faith in him. Was he actually a coward? And what about the money she'd paid him? Was he a terrible cheat and liar as well? Or was it the mismanagement of the steamship company that was to blame? She'd read stories in the Boston papers about how ruthless Ben Holladay could be in business dealings.

“I don't care how many rooms he has on this great tub,” Maddie proclaimed, “so long as we each get a bed.”

Catherine smiled at her. “I'm sure we'll each have a bed, even though we'll likely have to share a room. I'm just glad you and I could produce our tickets, Madeleine.”

Maddie stopped at a door at the end of the lower salon and grinned at Allie. “And would you lookie here now! It seems you and me will be together in this room, Allegra, my dear.”

“You and I,” Catherine corrected her, pausing to peer inside the room, then at the number on the door. “Number thirty-five. As I am number fifteen, I must be on the upper deck. Shall we meet for supper?”

Maddie wiggled her fingers at Catherine. “La-di-da—do you think those of us on the lower floor will be welcomed above our stations?”

Catherine tsked. “I cannot imagine anywhere you would not be welcomed, Madeleine dear.” She bent to kiss Gillian on the cheek, then straightened. “I shall see you all shortly.”

Maddie sighed as Catherine strolled away. “Not an unkind bone in her body, so there isn't. But she's mad to think I'll be welcomed at her table.”

As they'd waited for the ship to sail, Allie had learned a great deal about both her friends. Catherine came from a small town outside Boston, the daughter of a prominent physician. Maddie had been quieter about her background, but Allie knew she had journeyed from Ireland as a child with her father, only to meet prejudice on America's shores. She seemed to expect it now wherever she went.

“The good ship
Continental
is not New York,” Allie informed her, leading Gillian into the little room. “We'll be spending a quarter year together. The sooner we learn to live in peace, the better.”

“Just you remember that,” Maddie told her, “when that handsome Mr. Howard comes calling.”

Allie refused to dignify the comment with a response. Instead, she set to work making the room their home.

The cabin was a cozy, white-washed space, with two berths stacked one atop the other along one wall and surrounded by flowered chintz curtains. A narrow padded bench sat opposite with room underneath to stow their trunks.

“And look here,” Allie said, leading her frowning daughter to the tall slender wooden cabinet between the bunks and the bench. “There's a mirror on top so we can tidy our hair, and a desk that folds out for writing letters.”

Maddie pointed to the wood railing around the top of the cabinet. “And that's to keep our belongings from tipping over when the sea rocks the boat.”

Gillian's frown only deepened.

Allie forced a smile as she hung her cloak on a hook on one side of the cabinet. Gillian was used to much finer things, a room three times the size of this one, fancy dresses, fine food, but she was also used to being bossed about every second of her day under harsh discipline no child should have to endure. Changing that situation was more than worth lesser accommodations.

So, she showed Gillian how to make up the berths with the bedding they'd brought, hung a few of their things in the little cabinet, tucked the letters Frank had written her carefully in the back of the trunk. The only time she truly felt a pang of regret was when she arranged her two favorite books and Bible on one end of the bench for easy reach.

She and Frank had devoted one room of their home to a library. How they'd loved to sit and read aloud by the fire or share insights from their private reading. All she'd had room to carry were
Ivanhoe
and
Pride and Prejudice
. Both she could one day share with Gillian.

As they finished setting the room to rights, Maddie stood back and nodded. “Just like home. And we even have a sheet and blanket left over to be charitable to Mr. Howard.”

Allie had been stowing her trunk under the bench. Now she paused to glance up at her friend. Because she'd had to sneak away from the Howard mansion, their belongings consisted only of what could fit in the trunk that she had convinced a footman to hide in the carriage house for her.

She'd had a valise, as well, with many of Gillian's dresses, but it had been stolen. Allie had spent the evenings waiting for the
Continental
to sail by taking apart one of her gowns to make clothes for her daughter. With each item they currently possessed so hard won, how could she think of giving any away?

“Mr. Howard can certainly fend for himself,” she replied, pushing in the trunk and rising. “I see no need to rescue him from his own choices.”

Maddie cocked her head. “Even when he was so kind as to try to rescue you from yours?”