Father must have considered the congratulatory toast finished, for he resumed discussion of the fort’s construction. “I have heard rumblings that it will soon be named.”
“Perhaps we might have a gathering in honor of the event,” Mr. Finch said. “Perhaps a social or a tea. Wouldn’t you like that, Miss Elizabeth?” Without waiting for her answer, he launched into a list of all the ladies who had invited him to tea. Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted to Rourke. He would never attempt to prop himself up in her esteem by naming his conquests.
While Finch chirped on, she indulged the daydream of sailing Rourke’s sloop across the straits. What was Harbour Island like? As far as she knew, his family still lived there. He had seven siblings, all younger, and a father who had taught him to sail and dive. The Windsprite had belonged to Rourke’s father, but the elder O’Malley no longer wrecked. Rourke visited his family at least once a year. Many years ago she’d asked to go with him, but he had told her she must grow up first. Well, now she was fully grown.
“Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?” Mr. Finch asked.
That jolted her from pleasant musings. She nodded and smiled, even though she had no idea what he’d said. Aunt’s eyebrows had shot up at Mr. Finch’s obvious breach of decorum by using her first name but eased back down when Father did not object.
“Do you expect Judge Marvin to hear that wrecking case on Monday?” Mr. Finch asked Father.
“Which case?” Charlie asked. “The one about Uncle Jonathan’s ship?”
Elizabeth perked up. At last Finch had said something of interest. “Yes, is it about the Victory?” She had heard of no other recent wreck, but she’d only been here a week.
Aunt chimed in, “I do hope you will win the case for Jonathan.”
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. “Father, are you representing my uncle?”
“Of course he is,” Aunt said.
That meant Father opposed Rourke. Elizabeth stared at the chicken that Florie set in front of her. Somehow Aunt Virginia had found poultry at the market, but that wasn’t the change of events that caught her attention. The salvage was contested. That meant Rourke would face her father in court. Father never lost a case. This did not bode well for convincing Father that Rourke was a valid suitor.
“Must tell her de plan now.”
John’s plea wasn’t the only reason Rourke strolled up Caroline Street in the weak light of a crescent moon. The morning’s brief encounter with Elizabeth had whetted his appetite to spend more time with her. Something had changed in her, something that had quieted her youthful exuberance. He instinctively wanted to fix it and bring back the joyful girl he’d once known.
His mate’s insistence that Rourke speak to Anabelle gave him an excuse. He could ask Anabelle to send her mistress out to speak with him.
Away from the harbor, the streets were empty except for a young couple who had eyes only for each other. He ducked into the alley that ran behind the Benjamin house. Anabelle might be inside at this hour—probably would be—but Rourke preferred waiting in the shadows here than with an anxious mate. John wanted to bring his wife to safety in the Bahamas, and Rourke had given his word to help. After the hours spent with Winston this morning, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The salvage should have been a simple matter. A bilged ship usually met no resistance from the master. But not this time.
He waited behind the tangle of buttonwood and sea grape edging the Benjamin property. As with many of their neighbors, a tall picket fence surrounded the grounds. The rear gate, still open at this hour, could be locked at curfew, though few here did that. Immediately inside the gate stood the stable, which was quiet at this hour. The far end of the stable was set aside for slave quarters.
A woman hurried from the main house to the cookhouse. From her stature, it must be Anabelle. If he could get her alone, he could pass on the message. He crept to the side of the cookhouse and waited. And waited. It seemed she would never come out.
Finally she stepped out, carrying a large pan.
Rourke croaked the distinctive call of the egret.
She slowed her step as if waiting for more and then hurried forward.
Rourke followed, staying in the shadows.
She drifted toward him. “When?”
“Night of the Harvest Ball. Be at the gate an hour before midnight.”
She nodded.
“If no one is there, go to the cemetery.”
It was the perfect meeting place. With the fear of specters and disease running wild in the residents, no one would go there at that hour, when they thought swamp gasses lingered among the graves.
“Anabelle!” someone called from the back door of the house.