After locating the spot where she’d left off last night, Elizabeth continued forward. The entries detailed such commonplace occurrences that her attention waned. Surely something more interesting had occurred than the arrival of fine cotton lawn. Yet day after day, the diary read like a list for the mercantile.
She set the diary down and rubbed her eyes. Soon Anabelle would arrive to dress her. After that, the day would not allow for another look at the diary until nightfall. She heard Father close his door across the hall. He always left the house early and did not expect her at breakfast. Aunt Virginia was another matter. She would rise within the half hour. Elizabeth could read a little longer before hiding the book where no one would find it.
She picked up the diary again and turned the page.
I wish that woman had never come.
The words leapt off the page. Unlike Mother’s usual sprawling style, this writing was cramped. Each stroke of a letter wobbled. Her anguish speckled the page with scribbled-out words.
How could I have trusted him? Do vows mean nothing? I have heard of such things but never expected to find it in my own house. How I regret my ungracious comments to others, implying that the wife is somehow to blame for a husband’s wandering. Now I have felt that dagger pierce my own heart, and those careless words will be flung at me.
What can I do? No one here would understand, even if I dared to speak. My parents stop their ears to any complaint. I have nowhere to turn, no course to follow but one. Such matters must be hushed up, swept out with the dust. A virtuous woman must endure. She must hold her head high and pretend nothing has happened while the world laughs at her.
The entry ended with a watery splotch. Elizabeth rubbed a finger over the puckered paper. A hot tear had fallen there. In despair, Mother had cried out in the only way open to her.
Her words slashed open the memories of Elizabeth’s own fears and failures. Charlie. Rourke. Only she was the one who had broken faith. An older sister was supposed to care for her little brother. A true friend did not let someone take the blame for her.
A knock sounded on the door. “You ready fo’ me, miss?” It was Florie, not Anabelle.
For a second, Elizabeth wondered why, but she wasn’t ready for either of them. She must read more.
“Not yet,” she called out. “Come back in fifteen minutes.” That ought not raise alarms.
“Yes, miss.”
Elizabeth turned back to the diary.
What should I do? How can I raise my child alongside such a travesty? How can I stay silent with the proof of my husband’s unfaithfulness before me?
13
Rourke must secure Elizabeth’s promise to wait if he hoped to have a chance at her hand in a year. That night in the chapel he had wanted to kiss her. Instead he’d deliberately shattered her heart. Under such circumstances, few women would agree to see him, least of all wait a full year for his return. He must offer her hope, and that could only be accomplished in person. Somehow he must wiggle past the imposing figure of her great-aunt and her watchdog of a father.
After ensuring Charles Benjamin was in his office, Rourke left the harbor in search of Elizabeth. According to Anabelle, the day’s marketing took place between ten and eleven in the morning. Occasionally Aunt Virginia joined the family’s cook. He hoped that was the case today.
He angled past the grocer on Duval and spotted the Benjamins’ cook but not Elizabeth’s aunt. That would make his task more difficult, but he hadn’t time to waste. With the salvage libel dropped, Rourke stood to collect a handsome amount if the cargo sold for a good price at auction this afternoon. Once that was over and the amount due paid to him, Charles Benjamin would expect the Windsprite to set sail. Though Rourke had claimed to need two weeks, the chandlers would readily reveal that he was fully supplied and crewed. That was all Benjamin needed to press him to leave. Rourke must see Elizabeth now.
“I wondered when you would show.” Poppinclerk stepped from the shadows beside a grogshop.
Rourke skirted around him. “I’m busy.”
“So it seems.” Though far shorter, Poppinclerk managed to match his stride. “I see the Windsprite is fitting out for a long voyage.”
“Every wrecker prepares for weeks at sea,” Rourke snapped. After reading the incompetent pilot’s lies in his deposition, he wanted nothing to do with the man.
“Of course he does. I did so myself in times past.”
Rourke growled at the man’s reference to his wrecking career, as if it had lasted two years instead of two months. At the first opportunity and doubtless after a great deal of money changed hands, Poppinclerk took up piloting the vessels of unsuspecting masters.
Poppinclerk either did not hear Rourke’s irritation or chose to ignore it. “In your case, I hear you have a different destination in mind.”
“My destination is none of your concern.”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I heard that you were sailing for Harbour Island. It must have been a rumor. You know how quickly rumors race along the wharves. Why, I once heard that I’d perished at sea—and the man divulging this bit of information was standing right beside me.”