Restless, she crossed to the front window. She could see nothing between the posts of the upper-floor veranda and the coconut palms. Moreover, the restored room did not have a door or floor-length window to walk onto the balcony. She returned and flopped onto the bed.
Aunt’s criticisms today had stung. Despite having no experience and little training, Elizabeth had waded into managing the household. She consulted with Cook each morning and asked Florie to clean specific areas that she noticed needed a little attention. Still, Aunt Virginia found fault with everything, from the way she addressed the staff to the poor level of housekeeping. Most of all she harped on Anabelle’s insolence.
The entire matter had boiled over tonight when Cook served fish instead of the chicken Aunt had requested. Cook had told Elizabeth that chicken couldn’t be bought at any price, but Aunt Virginia refused to believe that was possible, instead attributing the fault to Anabelle since she had done the marketing. When Elizabeth leapt to her friend’s defense, Aunt scolded her for almost an hour about the proper way to deal with servants.
“You must wield a firm hand,” Aunt had insisted. “Threaten the whip and they’ll stay in line.”
Mother had never raised her voice, least of all had one of the servants whipped, and the household had suffered far less turmoil than Aunt had managed to stir up in a few days.
“If you don’t take charge, the servants will rule the house,” Aunt had insisted. “Show them you are mistress by starting with that maid of yours.”
Anabelle had been with Elizabeth for as long as she could remember. There would be no whipping of servants in her house.
Hopefully Aunt Virginia would return to Charleston shortly, and the whole situation with Anabelle could be avoided.
Elizabeth sat up. Where was Anabelle? She should have been here the moment Elizabeth retired. Cook said she’d send her up, but that had been ages ago. She eyed the door. Going downstairs might wake Aunt and start a new round of criticism. She would wait.
She rubbed her forehead. Compared to her other problems, staff issues were minor. Her brother had not left his bedchamber in the old music room and refused to admit her. A parade of women called each day to express their condolences, taxing her patience. The threat of Mr. Finch hung over her daily. Whenever he did pay a call, she must give him greater consideration than she could muster. Worst of all, there had been no news from the salvage.
Where was Rourke?
She padded across the waxed pine floor to the side window and looked in the direction of the harbor. From here, she could see little but the neighboring houses and the yard below. She leaned over the sill but still could see nothing. Distant laughter mingled with the night breeze, but the street was empty. No blast of a steamboat horn or clanging of a bell. Even the turtle cannery was quiet at this hour.
Three days had passed without a sighting of the Windsprite. The Joseph M had brought in a load of raw muslin earlier that day, but her crew would not estimate when to expect the remainder of the fleet. The deckhand would only tell Anabelle that the salvage was proceeding without any accidents. The report brought Elizabeth relief, but worry returned with the freshening wind. Too many wreckers had met their end on a salvage operation.
Not Rourke, please not Rourke.
That afternoon, Caroline had brought new hope. “He sees no one,” she had whispered to Elizabeth behind the cover of a silk fan.
Elizabeth knew that she referred to Rourke.
“All the ladies long for some glimmer of interest—a glance or smile—but he doesn’t attend any social functions. Some say his heart was broken.” Caroline’s hazel eyes sparkled with laughter. “I cannot imagine who could have done such a thing.”
The recollection of his strong arms and sea-green eyes made Elizabeth shiver. The years at sea had weathered his visage, to be sure, but she found his appearance nobler and more handsome. A man who could protect those he loved. A man of courage and honor. He struck such longing in her that she had to look away lest Aunt notice. Neither her aunt nor her father trusted wreckers, slipping them into the same category as pirates. If only Father truly knew Rourke, he would change his mind.
Moonlight silvered the roofs, and leaves rustled in the breeze. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth caught movement below. A single dark figure glided noiselessly through the back gate, past the stables and cookhouse before heading toward the main house.
Anabelle. Her tall figure was unmistakable. Where had she gone at such an hour, well after the 9:30 Negro curfew? What could possibly tempt her to risk arrest and Father’s displeasure?
As Elizabeth waited, her anger brewed. How could her maid put her in such a position? If Aunt Virginia found out that Anabelle had broken curfew, she would insist Elizabeth punish her. Why would she do this?
The bedroom door opened, and Anabelle slipped inside.
“Where were you?” Elizabeth demanded.
Anabelle glanced in the direction of Aunt Virginia’s room, which was separated from Elizabeth’s room by only a small reading room.