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konstantyaTitle: Catherine and the Pirate (The Reformed Criminal Remix)
Genre: Historical romance.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 5,353
Summary: A rewrite of the book, Catherine and the Pirate. Full summary and chapter index can be found here.
Chapter 1
High Hall, Massachusetts
1780
Catherine Markham gripped the stiff scrap of paper. "I knew it," she whispered, her fingers trembling. Her brother was alive.
Relief flooded through her and she slid down to the floor beside the desk, tears pricking her eyes. Since that day, a few weeks earlier, when her uncle had arrived to tell her that Royce had drowned, his heavily loaded brig sunk off the rocky Carolina coast after a ruthless attack by the British… Since that day, Catherine's life had become little more than a painful blur.
Why had Royce had to go on that blasted trip in the first place? It was a question she'd asked herself at least a hundred times over by now. He usually stayed home, but he'd been anxious to show support for the Continental Army, and so had decided to oversee this last shipment of leather and iron himself. The vessel had been destined for New Jersey, where a convoy of carts would have conveyed it to Brigadier General Anthony Wayne.
Catherine sighed. Royce had always been drawn to the sea. Up until four years ago, he'd actually been the captain of one of their father's most profitable ships. Only thirteen at the time, Catherine had idolized her brother—who was a full twelve years older than she—waiting excitedly for him to return from his voyages. He always brought her something—silk from China, an engraved ivory tusk from India, a silver chain from Naples—and she, in return, wrote him long, long letters of life at High Hall Manor.
But then their parents were killed in a carriage accident, and Royce had come home. Together, he and Catherine had struggled to heal what was left of their family—while also trying to carve out a sense of normality amidst an escalating war with the British. It had taken a number of sorrowful, stressful months, but eventually life had fallen back into something resembling a comfortable pattern.
All things considered, the arrangement that developed between them in the intervening years turned out to be an ideal one. He ran the family business while she ran the family estate, he listened to her thoughts and suggestions and she in turn respected his opinions and advice, and in many ways, they'd grown from mere brother and sister to best friends.
And Catherine had not been able to believe he was gone forever.
She blinked away tears as she read the note once again. Torn and dirty, the ink had smeared in places and the spelling was far from perfect, but the message was clear: The author claimed to have rescued Royce from the sea, and that they had him in their care. But it was the last sentence that checked her happiness and sent a fresh chill of worry through her—that if the Markhams wanted to see Royce again, they would bring fifty gold pieces to the Red Rooster Inn in Norfolk by the first of June. Less than two weeks away.
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. Surely Uncle Elliot had already paid the ransom. Surely he had. Catherine wasn't overly fond of the man—he wasn't unkind, but he was distant, and while he was by no means a Loyalist, he had enough reservations about the ongoing war to cause some tension whenever politics was brought up—but even she had to admit that he'd been immeasurably helpful since Royce's disappearance. Not only had he taken over the daily duties of running the Markham shipping business, but he'd taken it upon himself to deal with the seemingly endless stream of people who came to call and offer their condolences.
For Catherine, that had perhaps hurt the worst—how quickly everyone believed that Royce would never return. Every visitor that arrived in the days following the news of the attack seemed to add more and more credence to the one thing Catherine would not, could not, believe. But now… Her fingers tightened on the note and a tremulous smile began to curve her lips. She'd been right, all along; Royce was alive.
She had to wonder why her uncle hadn't told her about the note. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to alarm her with the news that Royce had been kidnapped. Perhaps he'd already paid the ransom and her brother was on his way home even now, and it was going to be a huge and wonderful surprise when—
"Catherine?"
She looked up to see her uncle standing in the open doorway, the light from the hall outlining his broad shoulders. He was built like her father had been—built like all Markham men were, it seemed—tall and strong. His brows were drawn together in a frown.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked.
Catherine got to her feet, feeling somehow guilty for being caught at her brother's desk, even though she had every right to be there. "I came to get some paper to write a thank you to the governor for the kind letter he sent. But then I—" She held out the note. "I found this on the desk."
Elliot strode forward and took the scrap of paper, his brow furrowing even more. The afternoon light briefly touched the lines on his face, and Catherine was struck by just how much he was beginning to resemble her father with the passing years. The difference, she realized, lay not in their wrinkles, but in how they'd gotten them: John Markham's had come from decades of deep grins and warm laughter, and while Uncle Elliot was by no means a stranger to smiling, the expression more often came off as a polite gesture than any indication of merriment.
Gravely, he turned away and placed the note back on the desk. "I'm sorry, Catherine. I should have told you about this, but I didn't want you to worry and—"
"You paid the ransom, didn't you?" She took a step closer, nervously smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. "Royce is coming home soon, isn't he? Did you send a ship for him? Or will he—?"
"No." He finally faced her, his expression troubled. Catherine's heart gave a sudden, hard thump.
"What do you mean?"
Elliot took a breath. "The letter came only two days after news of the attack did. Far too soon for someone to have actually rescued Royce and gotten a letter here all the way from Norfolk. In other words," he said, "it is a sad attempt by some clearly irreputable people, looking to profit from our grief."
"You…you believe the note is a hoax?" The words came out more unsteadily than she would have liked. Truthfully, the thought hadn't occurred to her. She'd been so relieved—too relieved—at the possibility that Royce might be alive to even consider… She looked back at the note on the desk. Uncle Elliot's reasoning was sound, admittedly, but what if it wasn't a hoax? What if her brother really was alive somewhere, waiting for them to rescue him?
A sense of urgency pushed her forward. "Uncle, if there's even a chance that Royce might be alive, then surely we must do what we can—"
Elliot sighed, as if he'd already thought over this very thing. "It would be a waste of time, I'm afraid. There were witnesses who saw your brother go into the water. Several stated that not only did they see him go overboard, but that he was unconscious after the spar fell across him."
The images her uncle painted were painful, and against her will, her resolve wavered. "They…they never found his body," she pointed out.
"It was nighttime. They wouldn't have been able to see it, especially not with the amount of debris left behind after the attack." He took a step closer and gathered her hands in his. "My dear niece, you must listen to me. I know these last few weeks have been difficult for you, but you must accept that Royce is lost to us. We have to go on from here."
Catherine shook her head and pulled her fingers free from his grasp, her throat tightening. Royce had to be alive—he had to be. She gripped her hands in front of her, trying to keep them from fidgeting. "W-we will pay the ransom, Uncle. Perhaps it isn't a hoax. Perhaps it is real and—"
Elliot's jaw tightened. "Royce is gone. There is nothing we can do about it, and the sooner you accept that fact, the easier it will be for you."
The brusqueness of the words couldn't help but incense her, and her fingers bunched defiantly in her skirt. "How can you say such a thing?" she cried. "We are talking about your own nephew—!"
"I know who he is!" At the outburst, her uncle fell silent, and pressed his mouth into a straight line while he regained his composure. "I care about him, too. But you must listen to reason, Catherine. Even if Royce did manage to survive the attack, even if he was abducted by these… Whoever they are, they aren't men of honor. I know the type, and they'd as soon lie as breathe."
"How do you know these men are lying?" she demanded. "What if they really do have Royce in their clutches?"
"If Royce was alive when his captors wrote this letter," Elliot shot back, "then why isn't it written in his hand?"
Catherine swallowed, her confidence giving a sudden, sick sway. "Per…perhaps he was ill… Or—or injured—"
"Then why didn't they include a lock of hair? Some proof that they at least had his body, if nothing else?" He ran a hand over his head, suddenly looking older than his fifty-six years. "Catherine, please. I have thought and thought on this until I can think no more. These ruffians didn't offer any proof because there was none to be had. As painful as it is, we must accept that Royce is lost to us."
"I can't!" The words came out, strained and sorrowful, before she could even think to stop them, and echoed loudly in the room. For a moment, there was only a dreadful silence, but then Elliot sighed resignedly.
"Then believe what you will. Meanwhile, we have other things to discuss." He moved to sit down in the large leather chair behind the desk—the large leather chair that Royce had brought back from his travels to Spain. "The solicitor is coming tomorrow to read your brother's will. You and I must be present, as we are the only two beneficiaries. It is my sincerest hope that you won't—"
The words her uncle was saying suddenly seemed to catch up with her, and she backed away, almost as if afraid of them. "I won't go to a reading of the will. Not until we know for certain that Royce is dead."
A muscle twitched in Elliot's jaw. "We must settle things. Your brother would expect you to do no less. If we do not act quickly, the business could fail." He hesitated, then said in a gentler voice, "These are uncertain times, Catherine. Boston is no longer under siege, thank God, but the war still continues to interfere with the company's operation—we've had three ships sunk in as many months. Things are precarious at best, and we must protect the family's interests at all costs."
Catherine's teeth clenched, and she found her fingers wanting to fist in her skirt again. "You seem to care more about the Markham Tea Company than my brother!"
At the accusation, a dull red color touched Elliot's cheeks. "That isn't true," he said. "While I will admit that I was somewhat…chagrined when I discovered that your father had left the bulk of the company to Royce, I have since come to realize that it was for the best. Your brother was a remarkable businessman. He increased the company's worth by almost fifty percent in a matter of a few years, hired better captains, developed new contacts in other countries. Your father would have been proud.
"Meanwhile, I…" Elliot looked down at the desk and straightened an already neat pile of correspondences. "I had hoped your father would recognize the work that I had put into the company. But he didn't see fit to do so, and that is that."
The pain in his voice managed to surprise her, and Catherine almost reached out, suddenly aware that she wasn't the only one of them who was hurting. "Uncle… I know you and Father didn't always agree on everything, but he never would have hurt your feelings intentionally. He was very fond of you."
Elliot managed a faint smile. "Of course. And I am certain he had reasons for doing what he did. But what is done is done." He looked at Catherine, and after a long moment, his face softened and he reached over to give her hand a small squeeze. "You are a dear child. And when you inherit the company, you will need all the help I am able to give you."
Inherit the company? Catherine blinked, her chest contracting uncomfortably at the prospect. "I—I don't want it," she managed, shaking her head. "I wouldn't know what to—"
"Don't fret. I will be here to assist you as much as I can," he assured. "But—"
"It isn't appropriate to discuss that now." The words came out quickly and stiffly, and she smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, as if having a well-kempt outside would consequently give her a well-kempt inside. Resolutely, she swallowed.
She wasn't going to inherit the Markham Tea Company. Not now, and not ever. Because her brother wasn't dead. He wasn't. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she simply knew—
Elliot nodded as if he understood. "Of course. It's too soon, isn't it? I do apologize; I should never have brought up the subject." He uncapped the bottle of ink that sat in Royce's silver writing set and pulled out a piece of paper. "I'm afraid I have some things to see to before dinner this evening." He smiled slightly and added, "In the meantime, why don't you retire for a few hours and rest? No doubt this has all been very taxing for you."
Catherine bristled at the suggestion. Her uncle wasn't unkind, but he was occasionally dismissive of her in a way that her father and her brother had never been. And now that she'd seen the note, resting was the last thing she wanted to do. Couldn't he see that?
She opened her mouth and took a breath, preparing to say as much, but then thought better of it. Instead, she let the air out of her lungs on a heavy sigh, let her shoulders drop, and feigned sudden weariness. For good measure, she put a hand to her temple, as if experiencing the beginnings of a headache. If her uncle wanted to believe her to be some fragile, easily-overwhelmed female, then who was she to argue? Particularly if it kept his suspicions from being aroused.
"Perhaps you are right, Uncle," she reluctantly conceded. "Perhaps I should rest."
Elliot smiled again, sympathetically. "Very good, my dear. I shall see you at dinner."
Catherine nodded back and slowly made her way out of the room, up the wide front staircase to her bedchamber, her mind racing all the while. Her uncle had clearly made up his mind about the ransom note, but she hadn't. But what could she do now?
She sighed, and in the privacy of her room, leaned back against the door. Her bedchamber was something of a quiet treasure for her, a cozy little sanctuary, decorated with beautiful mahogany furniture and sea-blue upholstery. A four-poster bed sat along one wall, its velvet hangings matching the expensive Aubusson rug that lay on the floor beside it, and lace curtains hung over the long windows, framing the breathtaking view of the garden below.
Catherine took great pride in seeing that the garden looked beautiful every year, filled with her mother's favorite flowers. The lilacs were already in full bloom, and almost every evening, she'd open the windows and let the cool spring breeze bring the scent of them into her room. But today she just didn't have the heart. Instead of opening the window, she simply sat next to it, staring out at the bright purple and white bushes without actually seeing them.
As much as she hated to admit it, her uncle's reasoning was sound. There were indeed those who captured ships with the sole intention of detaining wealthy travelers and attempting to get money from their innocent families. And certainly her uncle was right in that most of the time the abducted person was never returned—at least, not alive. The thought made her shiver, and she rubbed her arms unconsciously.
Still, she was sure she'd heard of at least a few cases where the missing person was actually returned. And that, along with her rather inexplicable conviction that Royce somehow was alive and well, led her to believe that Uncle Elliot was mistaken. But they only had two weeks. It would take at least a month to change her uncle's mind, if she was even capable of changing it at all; he was as stubborn as her father had been.
Catherine sighed, resting her forehead against the cool glass, and silently weighed her options. If her uncle would not help her, then she was on her own. She blinked as the thought struck her solidly and squarely—an epiphany that was almost terrible in its simplicity:
She was on her own. She would have to deliver the money to Norfolk.
Catherine slowly straightened as the idea started to sink in. It was madness, to even consider such an endeavor. A young lady, such as herself, making her way down to Norfolk, all alone, unprotected, in the middle of a war? She couldn't.
She had to.
Just then, a side door in the garden opened and her uncle emerged, dressed in riding clothes. Catherine hurried to close the curtains of her bedchamber, and carefully watched from the corner of the window as he disappeared from sight. Her heart pounded in her chest. As insane a plan as it was—going to Norfolk to deliver the ransom, herself—it was the only one she had, and if she was ever going to go through with it, now was the time to do so. Every afternoon, at exactly two, her uncle rode down to the docks to see the latest arrivals for the Markham Tea Company. It would be hours before he returned, and since he'd suggested she rest, he wouldn't expect to see her until supper. It was perfect. But where would she go? How would she get all the way to Norfolk in such a short amount of time?
Lost and desperate, she quickly cast her eyes about her room as if hoping it might, by some miracle, provide an answer. As luck would have it, her gaze caught on her desk—specifically on a tiny replica of a brigantine that her brother had given her only a few months before, its masts delicately carved from black maple, its rigging formed out of linen thread.
That was it. She'd go to the harbor and find a ship to carry her to Norfolk. It could take weeks for her to travel by horse, but by sea, the trip could be completed in a matter of days. Perhaps, she dared to think, Derrick St. John's ship might even be in harbor.
The thought of her brother's best friend made her momentarily hesitate. He wasn't the sort of person she would normally turn to for help. At twenty-five, he was a handful of years younger than Royce, but had a tendency to act at least a decade older. Catherine didn't think she'd heard the man laugh even once. And though he was close to Royce, he tended to be shorter with her. Catherine rather suspected it was because he thought her childish and a nuisance—an idea that irritated her to no end, particularly since her friends were always saying she sounded as old as their mothers. Oftentimes she wondered just what her brother saw in the man, that would be capable of sustaining a friendship, beyond a mutual love of the sea.
Still, a friend of Royce's he was, and while she wasn't the only one who wondered at their relationship (the younger man had been a known hellion in his youth and had even, it was rumored, spent some time in jail), she knew her brother trusted him with the company's most important cargos. And that, she decided, was all she needed to know. Royce did not place that kind of confidence in many people. And in addition to that, she knew for a fact that Derrick's ship was fast—a ship he had purchased from Royce, outright, not more than two years ago.
A fresh wave of hope lifted her heart, and she jumped up, went to her wardrobe, and began to dig through her clothing. After a few minutes, in the depths of a bottom drawer, she found what she was looking for: a loose white shirt, an old pair of Royce's breeches, and a waistcoat he'd worn back when he was Catherine's age.
The last time she'd worn the clothes had been years ago, before her parents had died. Father had reasoned that if she was going to insist on romping about outside, climbing trees and riding astride and heaven knew what else, the least she could do was not ruin her dresses in the process. And so, some of Royce's old cast-offs had been given to her. The memory struck her with a wave of nostalgia so strong, tears threatened her eyes and made her throat close up. It seemed like a lifetime ago. And when one compared the worn, woolen breeches with the sumptuous gowns she now wore…
Catherine pushed the thoughts aside. There would be time for mourning what was and what might have been later. At that particular moment, there were more important things to worry about. After all, as her memories had so viscerally reminded her, she'd already lost both her parents; she wasn't about to lose her brother, as well. Not if there was the possibility that she could prevent it.
It took a bit of doing, but she managed to unbutton the back of her dress, and quickly donned the shirt and pants. The first time she'd worn them, they'd hung so loosely Royce had called her "Rag Man" for weeks. Now they arguably fit too well. It was a boon she had the waistcoat, but while it provided some modesty, it did little to actually disguise the curve of her breasts. Maybe she could borrow the stable boy's shapeless brown coat. And his boots while she was at it, she thought, because there was absolutely no way any of her own shoes would pass muster. The prospect of taking them without asking shot a pang of guilt through her, but it was for a good cause, she reasoned. Besides, it wasn't as if she wasn't intending to return them. In fact, she might even buy him new boots when this was all over and done with.
Quickly, she took the pins out of her hair. It was too long to effectively tuck under a hat, but she could probably get away with tying it back in a braid, as so many men so often did. With her hair secure, Catherine went back to her wardrobe and pulled out a large brown hat she occasionally used when picking berries for Cook to make pies. She brushed it as straight as she could, plopped it on her head, and studied herself in the mirror.
Borrowing the brown coat would be a must, but if she wore that and stayed in the shadows, she could probably pass for a boy. It wasn't the best disguise, admittedly, but it would have to do. For perhaps the first time, she found herself blessing her height. That, at least, was one attribute that wouldn't immediately strike people as inherently feminine. Her brother and uncle still towered over her, true, but she could meet the eye of a decent amount of grown men—an ability that would come in handy if she was to convince the average passer-by that she wasn't, in fact, a girl.
Now if only she could be sure that Derrick St. John would be in port… There was no way of knowing, unfortunately. After five years, the focus of the war had shifted to the southern colonies, but the British blockade was still in full effect all along the coast. Which meant there was no set schedule of arrivals in any harbor, Boston or otherwise. Ships snuck through when they could. And some of them didn't succeed in sneaking through at all.
For a moment, Catherine's resolve wavered in the face of the possible perils that lay ahead, but she staunchly shook her uncertainty off. This was an emergency. She had to reach Royce. And her brother's plight was far more important than any fear she might have been feeling.
Resolutely, she turned from the mirror, collected a pillowcase from her bed, and opened the door to her room, carefully peering out into the hallway. If any of the servants saw her, they would almost certainly report it to her uncle, and then he'd make sure to watch her like a hawk from then on, lest she try something so dangerous a second time. But she had to at least try. She owed her brother that much.
She waited a few moments, until she was certain no one was nearby, then slipped out of her bedchamber and made her way back to the library, her stocking-clad feet whispering quietly against the floorboards. Upon reaching the room, she took a deep breath and glanced inside the open doorway, sighing in relief when she saw that it was empty. She entered, leaving the door as it had been, slightly open so she could see into the hallway, and quickly crossed to the desk. She crouched down behind it, opened the bottom drawer, and set about removing the papers and books within. With the contents set off to one side and the drawer now empty, she once again grabbed hold of it and began to pull it completely out of the desk.
As it finally came free, one corner of it slipped and hit the floor. It was possible it only made a small thunk, but to Catherine's overly-alert nerves, it sounded like a gunshot, and she held her breath in the dim, drawn room, her palms sweating, her heart pounding, and her eyes on the door, just waiting for someone to storm in. But no one did. And after a long minute, she released the air from her lungs and dared to move again.
With trembling hands, she felt around the trim until she found what she was searching for. The tiny notch felt like nothing more than a natural flaw in the wood, but Catherine knew otherwise. She fumbled with the indentation, and after a moment, the bottom of the drawer fell away to reveal a secret compartment.
Silently, she thanked her brother. He'd shown her the small cubbyhole back towards the beginning of the war, when Boston was still under siege, a mere two weeks after their parents had passed. Money for emergencies, he'd told her, in case the British army took up residence in the countryside after being forced out of the city. In case they'd have to flee at a moment's notice, taking nothing more than what they could carry. It had never come to that, thankfully—the British had retreated by way of the sea, when all was said and done—but the little cache of gold had been a good idea all the same. And all the better that her brother had seen fit to keep it tucked there ever since, despite the fact that the fighting was far away from Boston these days.
She lifted the bag of coins and tucked it into the waistband of her pants, then made to replace the desk drawer. She had just finished laying the papers and books back inside when a faint creak sounded. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest and Catherine froze.
The door to the room had needed oil for more than a year now. The servants kept threatening to take care of it, but years on board a ship had instilled a do-it-yourself approach to problem solving in Royce, and he consistently maintained that he could at least fix his own squeaking hinges. Yet somehow, between running the Markham Tea Company whilst simultaneously trying to help the Patriot cause, he'd never found the time to actually do it.
Catherine closed her eyes and prayed. It was all she could think to do. If any of the servants found her, crouched down beside her brother's desk, dressed in boys' clothes, it would all be over.
Except…no other sound came. Catherine opened her eyes again, waiting, her back stiff, her knees aching from the hard floor, and after a few more moments, could stand it no longer. Bracing herself, she leaned forward to peer around the corner of the desk, and—
A woolly face peered back. "George!" Relief coursed through her, and she grabbed the dog by the head and gave him a fierce hug before pulling back to scratch him behind his ears. "What are you doing in the house?" she whispered.
Her father had given George to her four years ago, on Catherine's thirteenth birthday, not even three weeks before he and Mother were killed in the carriage accident. It had made Catherine love the mutt all the more, despite the fact that it soon became apparent that George was by no means as well behaved as Royce's dogs. His spaniels came when called, sat when ordered, and could complete a whole list of tricks at a moment's notice; George on the other hand, could never seem to follow any command, no matter how simple.
The sad truth was, George was far better at being hugged than he was at catching sticks or shaking paws, and that was just fine with her. Never mind that Royce could never seem to appreciate that. He'd laughed at the dog, calling him part trouble and part horse, and Catherine hadn't spoken to him for days afterward.
The memory of the argument made Catherine's heart ache. What she wouldn't give for the chance to be angry at him right now, to see his lazy grin and hear him call her "Cat"—a nickname he'd given her as a little girl, that she'd never quite wanted to grow out of, where he was concerned. Her throat tightened and tears threatened to spill from her eyes. As if aware of her thoughts, George lapped at her face with a wet tongue.
"Ugh!" Catherine sputtered, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "There's no need for that." Overcome with the sudden knowledge that the feel of his tongue on her cheek, unpleasant and messy as it often was, was something she wouldn't be experiencing for quite a while, she threw her arms around his neck again and hugged him hard. "Oh, I'll miss you," she whispered into his fur. "I wish I could take you with me, but it will be too dangerous, I'm afraid." She ruffled his ears and scratched his chin. "You'll simply have to be good and stay here, and when I return with Royce, you can lick his cheeks all you like." George's tail wagged so hard at the prospect, his entire body seemed to wag with it. Catherine managed a grin, despite herself.
And with one more pet and a scant ten minutes later, she was on her way to Boston.
-----
All other fics can be found here.
Genre: Historical romance.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 5,353
Summary: A rewrite of the book, Catherine and the Pirate. Full summary and chapter index can be found here.
- Catherine and the Pirate (The Reformed Criminal Remix) -
Chapter 1
High Hall, Massachusetts
1780
Catherine Markham gripped the stiff scrap of paper. "I knew it," she whispered, her fingers trembling. Her brother was alive.
Relief flooded through her and she slid down to the floor beside the desk, tears pricking her eyes. Since that day, a few weeks earlier, when her uncle had arrived to tell her that Royce had drowned, his heavily loaded brig sunk off the rocky Carolina coast after a ruthless attack by the British… Since that day, Catherine's life had become little more than a painful blur.
Why had Royce had to go on that blasted trip in the first place? It was a question she'd asked herself at least a hundred times over by now. He usually stayed home, but he'd been anxious to show support for the Continental Army, and so had decided to oversee this last shipment of leather and iron himself. The vessel had been destined for New Jersey, where a convoy of carts would have conveyed it to Brigadier General Anthony Wayne.
Catherine sighed. Royce had always been drawn to the sea. Up until four years ago, he'd actually been the captain of one of their father's most profitable ships. Only thirteen at the time, Catherine had idolized her brother—who was a full twelve years older than she—waiting excitedly for him to return from his voyages. He always brought her something—silk from China, an engraved ivory tusk from India, a silver chain from Naples—and she, in return, wrote him long, long letters of life at High Hall Manor.
But then their parents were killed in a carriage accident, and Royce had come home. Together, he and Catherine had struggled to heal what was left of their family—while also trying to carve out a sense of normality amidst an escalating war with the British. It had taken a number of sorrowful, stressful months, but eventually life had fallen back into something resembling a comfortable pattern.
All things considered, the arrangement that developed between them in the intervening years turned out to be an ideal one. He ran the family business while she ran the family estate, he listened to her thoughts and suggestions and she in turn respected his opinions and advice, and in many ways, they'd grown from mere brother and sister to best friends.
And Catherine had not been able to believe he was gone forever.
She blinked away tears as she read the note once again. Torn and dirty, the ink had smeared in places and the spelling was far from perfect, but the message was clear: The author claimed to have rescued Royce from the sea, and that they had him in their care. But it was the last sentence that checked her happiness and sent a fresh chill of worry through her—that if the Markhams wanted to see Royce again, they would bring fifty gold pieces to the Red Rooster Inn in Norfolk by the first of June. Less than two weeks away.
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. Surely Uncle Elliot had already paid the ransom. Surely he had. Catherine wasn't overly fond of the man—he wasn't unkind, but he was distant, and while he was by no means a Loyalist, he had enough reservations about the ongoing war to cause some tension whenever politics was brought up—but even she had to admit that he'd been immeasurably helpful since Royce's disappearance. Not only had he taken over the daily duties of running the Markham shipping business, but he'd taken it upon himself to deal with the seemingly endless stream of people who came to call and offer their condolences.
For Catherine, that had perhaps hurt the worst—how quickly everyone believed that Royce would never return. Every visitor that arrived in the days following the news of the attack seemed to add more and more credence to the one thing Catherine would not, could not, believe. But now… Her fingers tightened on the note and a tremulous smile began to curve her lips. She'd been right, all along; Royce was alive.
She had to wonder why her uncle hadn't told her about the note. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to alarm her with the news that Royce had been kidnapped. Perhaps he'd already paid the ransom and her brother was on his way home even now, and it was going to be a huge and wonderful surprise when—
"Catherine?"
She looked up to see her uncle standing in the open doorway, the light from the hall outlining his broad shoulders. He was built like her father had been—built like all Markham men were, it seemed—tall and strong. His brows were drawn together in a frown.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked.
Catherine got to her feet, feeling somehow guilty for being caught at her brother's desk, even though she had every right to be there. "I came to get some paper to write a thank you to the governor for the kind letter he sent. But then I—" She held out the note. "I found this on the desk."
Elliot strode forward and took the scrap of paper, his brow furrowing even more. The afternoon light briefly touched the lines on his face, and Catherine was struck by just how much he was beginning to resemble her father with the passing years. The difference, she realized, lay not in their wrinkles, but in how they'd gotten them: John Markham's had come from decades of deep grins and warm laughter, and while Uncle Elliot was by no means a stranger to smiling, the expression more often came off as a polite gesture than any indication of merriment.
Gravely, he turned away and placed the note back on the desk. "I'm sorry, Catherine. I should have told you about this, but I didn't want you to worry and—"
"You paid the ransom, didn't you?" She took a step closer, nervously smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. "Royce is coming home soon, isn't he? Did you send a ship for him? Or will he—?"
"No." He finally faced her, his expression troubled. Catherine's heart gave a sudden, hard thump.
"What do you mean?"
Elliot took a breath. "The letter came only two days after news of the attack did. Far too soon for someone to have actually rescued Royce and gotten a letter here all the way from Norfolk. In other words," he said, "it is a sad attempt by some clearly irreputable people, looking to profit from our grief."
"You…you believe the note is a hoax?" The words came out more unsteadily than she would have liked. Truthfully, the thought hadn't occurred to her. She'd been so relieved—too relieved—at the possibility that Royce might be alive to even consider… She looked back at the note on the desk. Uncle Elliot's reasoning was sound, admittedly, but what if it wasn't a hoax? What if her brother really was alive somewhere, waiting for them to rescue him?
A sense of urgency pushed her forward. "Uncle, if there's even a chance that Royce might be alive, then surely we must do what we can—"
Elliot sighed, as if he'd already thought over this very thing. "It would be a waste of time, I'm afraid. There were witnesses who saw your brother go into the water. Several stated that not only did they see him go overboard, but that he was unconscious after the spar fell across him."
The images her uncle painted were painful, and against her will, her resolve wavered. "They…they never found his body," she pointed out.
"It was nighttime. They wouldn't have been able to see it, especially not with the amount of debris left behind after the attack." He took a step closer and gathered her hands in his. "My dear niece, you must listen to me. I know these last few weeks have been difficult for you, but you must accept that Royce is lost to us. We have to go on from here."
Catherine shook her head and pulled her fingers free from his grasp, her throat tightening. Royce had to be alive—he had to be. She gripped her hands in front of her, trying to keep them from fidgeting. "W-we will pay the ransom, Uncle. Perhaps it isn't a hoax. Perhaps it is real and—"
Elliot's jaw tightened. "Royce is gone. There is nothing we can do about it, and the sooner you accept that fact, the easier it will be for you."
The brusqueness of the words couldn't help but incense her, and her fingers bunched defiantly in her skirt. "How can you say such a thing?" she cried. "We are talking about your own nephew—!"
"I know who he is!" At the outburst, her uncle fell silent, and pressed his mouth into a straight line while he regained his composure. "I care about him, too. But you must listen to reason, Catherine. Even if Royce did manage to survive the attack, even if he was abducted by these… Whoever they are, they aren't men of honor. I know the type, and they'd as soon lie as breathe."
"How do you know these men are lying?" she demanded. "What if they really do have Royce in their clutches?"
"If Royce was alive when his captors wrote this letter," Elliot shot back, "then why isn't it written in his hand?"
Catherine swallowed, her confidence giving a sudden, sick sway. "Per…perhaps he was ill… Or—or injured—"
"Then why didn't they include a lock of hair? Some proof that they at least had his body, if nothing else?" He ran a hand over his head, suddenly looking older than his fifty-six years. "Catherine, please. I have thought and thought on this until I can think no more. These ruffians didn't offer any proof because there was none to be had. As painful as it is, we must accept that Royce is lost to us."
"I can't!" The words came out, strained and sorrowful, before she could even think to stop them, and echoed loudly in the room. For a moment, there was only a dreadful silence, but then Elliot sighed resignedly.
"Then believe what you will. Meanwhile, we have other things to discuss." He moved to sit down in the large leather chair behind the desk—the large leather chair that Royce had brought back from his travels to Spain. "The solicitor is coming tomorrow to read your brother's will. You and I must be present, as we are the only two beneficiaries. It is my sincerest hope that you won't—"
The words her uncle was saying suddenly seemed to catch up with her, and she backed away, almost as if afraid of them. "I won't go to a reading of the will. Not until we know for certain that Royce is dead."
A muscle twitched in Elliot's jaw. "We must settle things. Your brother would expect you to do no less. If we do not act quickly, the business could fail." He hesitated, then said in a gentler voice, "These are uncertain times, Catherine. Boston is no longer under siege, thank God, but the war still continues to interfere with the company's operation—we've had three ships sunk in as many months. Things are precarious at best, and we must protect the family's interests at all costs."
Catherine's teeth clenched, and she found her fingers wanting to fist in her skirt again. "You seem to care more about the Markham Tea Company than my brother!"
At the accusation, a dull red color touched Elliot's cheeks. "That isn't true," he said. "While I will admit that I was somewhat…chagrined when I discovered that your father had left the bulk of the company to Royce, I have since come to realize that it was for the best. Your brother was a remarkable businessman. He increased the company's worth by almost fifty percent in a matter of a few years, hired better captains, developed new contacts in other countries. Your father would have been proud.
"Meanwhile, I…" Elliot looked down at the desk and straightened an already neat pile of correspondences. "I had hoped your father would recognize the work that I had put into the company. But he didn't see fit to do so, and that is that."
The pain in his voice managed to surprise her, and Catherine almost reached out, suddenly aware that she wasn't the only one of them who was hurting. "Uncle… I know you and Father didn't always agree on everything, but he never would have hurt your feelings intentionally. He was very fond of you."
Elliot managed a faint smile. "Of course. And I am certain he had reasons for doing what he did. But what is done is done." He looked at Catherine, and after a long moment, his face softened and he reached over to give her hand a small squeeze. "You are a dear child. And when you inherit the company, you will need all the help I am able to give you."
Inherit the company? Catherine blinked, her chest contracting uncomfortably at the prospect. "I—I don't want it," she managed, shaking her head. "I wouldn't know what to—"
"Don't fret. I will be here to assist you as much as I can," he assured. "But—"
"It isn't appropriate to discuss that now." The words came out quickly and stiffly, and she smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, as if having a well-kempt outside would consequently give her a well-kempt inside. Resolutely, she swallowed.
She wasn't going to inherit the Markham Tea Company. Not now, and not ever. Because her brother wasn't dead. He wasn't. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she simply knew—
Elliot nodded as if he understood. "Of course. It's too soon, isn't it? I do apologize; I should never have brought up the subject." He uncapped the bottle of ink that sat in Royce's silver writing set and pulled out a piece of paper. "I'm afraid I have some things to see to before dinner this evening." He smiled slightly and added, "In the meantime, why don't you retire for a few hours and rest? No doubt this has all been very taxing for you."
Catherine bristled at the suggestion. Her uncle wasn't unkind, but he was occasionally dismissive of her in a way that her father and her brother had never been. And now that she'd seen the note, resting was the last thing she wanted to do. Couldn't he see that?
She opened her mouth and took a breath, preparing to say as much, but then thought better of it. Instead, she let the air out of her lungs on a heavy sigh, let her shoulders drop, and feigned sudden weariness. For good measure, she put a hand to her temple, as if experiencing the beginnings of a headache. If her uncle wanted to believe her to be some fragile, easily-overwhelmed female, then who was she to argue? Particularly if it kept his suspicions from being aroused.
"Perhaps you are right, Uncle," she reluctantly conceded. "Perhaps I should rest."
Elliot smiled again, sympathetically. "Very good, my dear. I shall see you at dinner."
Catherine nodded back and slowly made her way out of the room, up the wide front staircase to her bedchamber, her mind racing all the while. Her uncle had clearly made up his mind about the ransom note, but she hadn't. But what could she do now?
She sighed, and in the privacy of her room, leaned back against the door. Her bedchamber was something of a quiet treasure for her, a cozy little sanctuary, decorated with beautiful mahogany furniture and sea-blue upholstery. A four-poster bed sat along one wall, its velvet hangings matching the expensive Aubusson rug that lay on the floor beside it, and lace curtains hung over the long windows, framing the breathtaking view of the garden below.
Catherine took great pride in seeing that the garden looked beautiful every year, filled with her mother's favorite flowers. The lilacs were already in full bloom, and almost every evening, she'd open the windows and let the cool spring breeze bring the scent of them into her room. But today she just didn't have the heart. Instead of opening the window, she simply sat next to it, staring out at the bright purple and white bushes without actually seeing them.
As much as she hated to admit it, her uncle's reasoning was sound. There were indeed those who captured ships with the sole intention of detaining wealthy travelers and attempting to get money from their innocent families. And certainly her uncle was right in that most of the time the abducted person was never returned—at least, not alive. The thought made her shiver, and she rubbed her arms unconsciously.
Still, she was sure she'd heard of at least a few cases where the missing person was actually returned. And that, along with her rather inexplicable conviction that Royce somehow was alive and well, led her to believe that Uncle Elliot was mistaken. But they only had two weeks. It would take at least a month to change her uncle's mind, if she was even capable of changing it at all; he was as stubborn as her father had been.
Catherine sighed, resting her forehead against the cool glass, and silently weighed her options. If her uncle would not help her, then she was on her own. She blinked as the thought struck her solidly and squarely—an epiphany that was almost terrible in its simplicity:
She was on her own. She would have to deliver the money to Norfolk.
Catherine slowly straightened as the idea started to sink in. It was madness, to even consider such an endeavor. A young lady, such as herself, making her way down to Norfolk, all alone, unprotected, in the middle of a war? She couldn't.
She had to.
Just then, a side door in the garden opened and her uncle emerged, dressed in riding clothes. Catherine hurried to close the curtains of her bedchamber, and carefully watched from the corner of the window as he disappeared from sight. Her heart pounded in her chest. As insane a plan as it was—going to Norfolk to deliver the ransom, herself—it was the only one she had, and if she was ever going to go through with it, now was the time to do so. Every afternoon, at exactly two, her uncle rode down to the docks to see the latest arrivals for the Markham Tea Company. It would be hours before he returned, and since he'd suggested she rest, he wouldn't expect to see her until supper. It was perfect. But where would she go? How would she get all the way to Norfolk in such a short amount of time?
Lost and desperate, she quickly cast her eyes about her room as if hoping it might, by some miracle, provide an answer. As luck would have it, her gaze caught on her desk—specifically on a tiny replica of a brigantine that her brother had given her only a few months before, its masts delicately carved from black maple, its rigging formed out of linen thread.
That was it. She'd go to the harbor and find a ship to carry her to Norfolk. It could take weeks for her to travel by horse, but by sea, the trip could be completed in a matter of days. Perhaps, she dared to think, Derrick St. John's ship might even be in harbor.
The thought of her brother's best friend made her momentarily hesitate. He wasn't the sort of person she would normally turn to for help. At twenty-five, he was a handful of years younger than Royce, but had a tendency to act at least a decade older. Catherine didn't think she'd heard the man laugh even once. And though he was close to Royce, he tended to be shorter with her. Catherine rather suspected it was because he thought her childish and a nuisance—an idea that irritated her to no end, particularly since her friends were always saying she sounded as old as their mothers. Oftentimes she wondered just what her brother saw in the man, that would be capable of sustaining a friendship, beyond a mutual love of the sea.
Still, a friend of Royce's he was, and while she wasn't the only one who wondered at their relationship (the younger man had been a known hellion in his youth and had even, it was rumored, spent some time in jail), she knew her brother trusted him with the company's most important cargos. And that, she decided, was all she needed to know. Royce did not place that kind of confidence in many people. And in addition to that, she knew for a fact that Derrick's ship was fast—a ship he had purchased from Royce, outright, not more than two years ago.
A fresh wave of hope lifted her heart, and she jumped up, went to her wardrobe, and began to dig through her clothing. After a few minutes, in the depths of a bottom drawer, she found what she was looking for: a loose white shirt, an old pair of Royce's breeches, and a waistcoat he'd worn back when he was Catherine's age.
The last time she'd worn the clothes had been years ago, before her parents had died. Father had reasoned that if she was going to insist on romping about outside, climbing trees and riding astride and heaven knew what else, the least she could do was not ruin her dresses in the process. And so, some of Royce's old cast-offs had been given to her. The memory struck her with a wave of nostalgia so strong, tears threatened her eyes and made her throat close up. It seemed like a lifetime ago. And when one compared the worn, woolen breeches with the sumptuous gowns she now wore…
Catherine pushed the thoughts aside. There would be time for mourning what was and what might have been later. At that particular moment, there were more important things to worry about. After all, as her memories had so viscerally reminded her, she'd already lost both her parents; she wasn't about to lose her brother, as well. Not if there was the possibility that she could prevent it.
It took a bit of doing, but she managed to unbutton the back of her dress, and quickly donned the shirt and pants. The first time she'd worn them, they'd hung so loosely Royce had called her "Rag Man" for weeks. Now they arguably fit too well. It was a boon she had the waistcoat, but while it provided some modesty, it did little to actually disguise the curve of her breasts. Maybe she could borrow the stable boy's shapeless brown coat. And his boots while she was at it, she thought, because there was absolutely no way any of her own shoes would pass muster. The prospect of taking them without asking shot a pang of guilt through her, but it was for a good cause, she reasoned. Besides, it wasn't as if she wasn't intending to return them. In fact, she might even buy him new boots when this was all over and done with.
Quickly, she took the pins out of her hair. It was too long to effectively tuck under a hat, but she could probably get away with tying it back in a braid, as so many men so often did. With her hair secure, Catherine went back to her wardrobe and pulled out a large brown hat she occasionally used when picking berries for Cook to make pies. She brushed it as straight as she could, plopped it on her head, and studied herself in the mirror.
Borrowing the brown coat would be a must, but if she wore that and stayed in the shadows, she could probably pass for a boy. It wasn't the best disguise, admittedly, but it would have to do. For perhaps the first time, she found herself blessing her height. That, at least, was one attribute that wouldn't immediately strike people as inherently feminine. Her brother and uncle still towered over her, true, but she could meet the eye of a decent amount of grown men—an ability that would come in handy if she was to convince the average passer-by that she wasn't, in fact, a girl.
Now if only she could be sure that Derrick St. John would be in port… There was no way of knowing, unfortunately. After five years, the focus of the war had shifted to the southern colonies, but the British blockade was still in full effect all along the coast. Which meant there was no set schedule of arrivals in any harbor, Boston or otherwise. Ships snuck through when they could. And some of them didn't succeed in sneaking through at all.
For a moment, Catherine's resolve wavered in the face of the possible perils that lay ahead, but she staunchly shook her uncertainty off. This was an emergency. She had to reach Royce. And her brother's plight was far more important than any fear she might have been feeling.
Resolutely, she turned from the mirror, collected a pillowcase from her bed, and opened the door to her room, carefully peering out into the hallway. If any of the servants saw her, they would almost certainly report it to her uncle, and then he'd make sure to watch her like a hawk from then on, lest she try something so dangerous a second time. But she had to at least try. She owed her brother that much.
She waited a few moments, until she was certain no one was nearby, then slipped out of her bedchamber and made her way back to the library, her stocking-clad feet whispering quietly against the floorboards. Upon reaching the room, she took a deep breath and glanced inside the open doorway, sighing in relief when she saw that it was empty. She entered, leaving the door as it had been, slightly open so she could see into the hallway, and quickly crossed to the desk. She crouched down behind it, opened the bottom drawer, and set about removing the papers and books within. With the contents set off to one side and the drawer now empty, she once again grabbed hold of it and began to pull it completely out of the desk.
As it finally came free, one corner of it slipped and hit the floor. It was possible it only made a small thunk, but to Catherine's overly-alert nerves, it sounded like a gunshot, and she held her breath in the dim, drawn room, her palms sweating, her heart pounding, and her eyes on the door, just waiting for someone to storm in. But no one did. And after a long minute, she released the air from her lungs and dared to move again.
With trembling hands, she felt around the trim until she found what she was searching for. The tiny notch felt like nothing more than a natural flaw in the wood, but Catherine knew otherwise. She fumbled with the indentation, and after a moment, the bottom of the drawer fell away to reveal a secret compartment.
Silently, she thanked her brother. He'd shown her the small cubbyhole back towards the beginning of the war, when Boston was still under siege, a mere two weeks after their parents had passed. Money for emergencies, he'd told her, in case the British army took up residence in the countryside after being forced out of the city. In case they'd have to flee at a moment's notice, taking nothing more than what they could carry. It had never come to that, thankfully—the British had retreated by way of the sea, when all was said and done—but the little cache of gold had been a good idea all the same. And all the better that her brother had seen fit to keep it tucked there ever since, despite the fact that the fighting was far away from Boston these days.
She lifted the bag of coins and tucked it into the waistband of her pants, then made to replace the desk drawer. She had just finished laying the papers and books back inside when a faint creak sounded. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest and Catherine froze.
The door to the room had needed oil for more than a year now. The servants kept threatening to take care of it, but years on board a ship had instilled a do-it-yourself approach to problem solving in Royce, and he consistently maintained that he could at least fix his own squeaking hinges. Yet somehow, between running the Markham Tea Company whilst simultaneously trying to help the Patriot cause, he'd never found the time to actually do it.
Catherine closed her eyes and prayed. It was all she could think to do. If any of the servants found her, crouched down beside her brother's desk, dressed in boys' clothes, it would all be over.
Except…no other sound came. Catherine opened her eyes again, waiting, her back stiff, her knees aching from the hard floor, and after a few more moments, could stand it no longer. Bracing herself, she leaned forward to peer around the corner of the desk, and—
A woolly face peered back. "George!" Relief coursed through her, and she grabbed the dog by the head and gave him a fierce hug before pulling back to scratch him behind his ears. "What are you doing in the house?" she whispered.
Her father had given George to her four years ago, on Catherine's thirteenth birthday, not even three weeks before he and Mother were killed in the carriage accident. It had made Catherine love the mutt all the more, despite the fact that it soon became apparent that George was by no means as well behaved as Royce's dogs. His spaniels came when called, sat when ordered, and could complete a whole list of tricks at a moment's notice; George on the other hand, could never seem to follow any command, no matter how simple.
The sad truth was, George was far better at being hugged than he was at catching sticks or shaking paws, and that was just fine with her. Never mind that Royce could never seem to appreciate that. He'd laughed at the dog, calling him part trouble and part horse, and Catherine hadn't spoken to him for days afterward.
The memory of the argument made Catherine's heart ache. What she wouldn't give for the chance to be angry at him right now, to see his lazy grin and hear him call her "Cat"—a nickname he'd given her as a little girl, that she'd never quite wanted to grow out of, where he was concerned. Her throat tightened and tears threatened to spill from her eyes. As if aware of her thoughts, George lapped at her face with a wet tongue.
"Ugh!" Catherine sputtered, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "There's no need for that." Overcome with the sudden knowledge that the feel of his tongue on her cheek, unpleasant and messy as it often was, was something she wouldn't be experiencing for quite a while, she threw her arms around his neck again and hugged him hard. "Oh, I'll miss you," she whispered into his fur. "I wish I could take you with me, but it will be too dangerous, I'm afraid." She ruffled his ears and scratched his chin. "You'll simply have to be good and stay here, and when I return with Royce, you can lick his cheeks all you like." George's tail wagged so hard at the prospect, his entire body seemed to wag with it. Catherine managed a grin, despite herself.
And with one more pet and a scant ten minutes later, she was on her way to Boston.
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