It brought to mind a certain Boston townhouse during the war. Heavy fringed draperies hung at the windows, blocking the sunlight but not the sound of soldiers drilling or the constant beat of their drum. Vessels sat anchored up and down the coast with British men-of-war standing guard over them in the harbor.
The voluptuous blond woman showed no emotion as she delivered the baby called Benjamin into Papa’s arms. Papa bounced the pudgy towhead on his hip, but Ben squirmed against a stranger’s embrace. He searched pitifully about the foyer, and when he didn’t find whom he was looking for, he screwed up his little face and cried out, “Papa?”
Lorena thought it terribly tragic he didn’t call for his mama, but the closest the woman came to compassion was to shove a tiny sea captain’s doll she referred to as Captain Briggs into Lorena’s hands. She addressed her only child for the last time, saying, “That silly doll is the last you’ll ever see of that papa of yours.” The murderous look in her eyes sent a chill up Lorena’s spine.
She shook off the unpleasant memory and grew stern. “Drew, this morning I promised I’d read aloud to you from David’s psalms. Remember I said you needed to learn David’s wisdom? Well, young man, this sulking is very unwise. Tonight of all nights. And if it does not stop, I shall be forced to put you to bed with no stories of David for a week—”
“No!” he barked, blue eyes blazing and in a voice far too demanding. One look at Lorena’s sharp, disapproving glare, however, and he quieted. The color rose high on his cherub cheeks, his golden lashes lowering ashamedly as he murmured, “I . . . I’ll be good.”
With a little assistance he wriggled to an upright position and not a moment too soon. Footsteps thudded down the hall. Lorena straightened his cravat and wiped the drool from his chin. Outside in the foyer the footsteps halted, then thumped back across the corridor toward the west parlor.
“I don’t understand where they’ve gotten off to.” It was her father’s voice. “I thought they’d be waiting. . . .” Papa appeared in the doorway. His eyes twinkled at her while he addressed the gentlemen behind him. “Ah, here they are,” he said, chuckling. And to his daughter, “For a moment I thought I’d misplaced you.”
“Sorry, Papa.” Lorena rose to greet her guests. Her white lace shawl slipped off one shoulder to ruffle in the crook of her arm. Its silky fringe dangled from her elbow as she anxiously watched her father enter. He was followed by a rusty-haired fellow, heavily freckled, with long side whiskers as coarse and wild as a boar’s-hair brush, and a chest so thick it seemed to overpower the lower half of his body.
Then suddenly he was before her. The guest of honor strode through the door like the giant he was, looking all the more so standing inside Lorena’s dainty parlor.
With the exception of his unkempt, shaggy hairstyle, he made quite the fashionable figure in a single-breasted jacket of midnight blue, cut straight at the waist with knee-deep tails. His waistcoat was yellow silk brocade, his trousers dove gray and tucked neatly into the same black knee boots of this morning. The points of both his starched white shirt and jacket collars were turned up to flank his lean cheeks and parallel the edges of his long side whiskers. Beneath the determined set of his jaw lay a white neckerchief tied in a meticulous bow.
Lorena could not tear her gaze from the imposing sight of him. There was something about his confidence . . . something in the firm set of his jaw and the steadiness of his expression . . . something in his look of fierce determination that made her wonder whether he’d come with a purpose more substantial than supping with her family.
She regretted her presumptuousness in thinking she could remain in complete control, fearful at any moment he might unleash his anger, blanching against the riot of butterflies in her stomach, only to watch his gaze pass idly by, as though she had blended into the wallpaper.
He looked instead at Drew.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce my daughter, Lorena, and my young son, Drew. Children, meet our guests. Captain Brogan Talvis and his chief mate, Mr. Jabez Smith.”
At Nathaniel Huntley’s introduction, Brogan held back and left Jabez to exchange pleasantries while he indulged in the sight of his son, dressed in the attire of a little man.
My, how the lad had grown these three years of their separation. His heart swelled with pride, so much so that he remained barely aware of Huntley’s daughter, until the boy scooted off the sofa to stand beside her and take her hand.
Watching, a pain stabbed Brogan’s heart. He felt excluded. His gaze rose from the girl’s white satin slippers to their ribbon laces wound around her trim ankles and peeking out from beneath a shortened hemline that displayed the lace edge of a petticoat. The gown was of Empire fashion, in a shade somewhere between that of spring lilacs and a ripe plum. Its satiny fabric shimmered in the glow of the oil lamps the way a pool of water captured the reflection of a rainbow.
When at last Brogan looked into that delicate face framed by ginger ringlets, he found her regarding him with chocolaty brown eyes he recognized at once.