“Pray, Lorena. Pray the Lord makes His will known to all of us who care for the captain.”
A tear streaked down her cheek as her father pressed a kiss to her temple. Lorena wished she could remain strong, but at Papa’s tenderness she sobbed. Her hopes drained. It tore at her, not being able to help someone she loved.
From within the house came the patter of feet, quickly headed their way. Drew called out as he bounded over the threshold, and Lorena pulled from her father’s embrace to dab at her eyes.
The boy halted at the sight of her swollen eyes, confused. He followed her gaze toward the bay. Together they watched Brogan’s boat grow smaller and smaller with each pull of the oars that rowed him farther away.
“Papa?” he moaned in a weak, small voice.
He glanced up, alarmed. “Where is he going, Lorena?”
“The captain needs to return to his crew,” her father explained. “Come, Drew. Join me for a taste of that fine meal Mrs. Culliford has prepared.” He reached for the child’s hand, but Drew had already sensed something to be terribly wrong and leapt out of reach.
He took off in the direction of the fitting wharf, shouting for his papa.
A light rain fell that afternoon. Daylight waned, until twilight lingered over the Huntley estate in that intermediate moment between sunset and the encompassing fall of darkness.
Lorena waited at the windows, yet Brogan did not return to the house for supper. A much bewildered Mr. Smith did call, however, concerned as to what ailed his captain. Brogan had returned to the Yankee Heart, wearing the ghastly look of one whose spirit had been crushed.
She was a barren merchantman that now sat in the Cowyard waters of Duxboro Bay, Mr. Smith explained. Nothing but the creaking of the yards echoing across a vast, lonely deck. No cargo filled her hold, no seamen kept her watch, for Brogan had ordered all to partake of her father’s generous offer. The crew was currently making merry in one of his boardinghouses, feasting on one of the grandest meals they’d ever been treated to in their seafaring careers. Comfortable beds awaited them at the end of the evening.
The Yankee Heart had turned into a mournful, empty shell of a ship, with her captain locked away in her bowels, refusing to speak to anyone, not even Mr. Smith.
Brogan had never been one to sulk, the mate confessed. This silent despair made little sense after the welcoming and grateful reception they’d all received earlier. Were harsh words exchanged between Brogan and Mr. Huntley? He decided to row over and find out for himself.
But Mr. Smith was encouraged to stay and dine with the family, which he did.
There seemed little point in keeping the truth from Brogan’s closest and dearest friend. The mate bore the news gravely and agreed with her father that she should not accompany him back to the Yankee Heart to try to speak with Brogan.
Lorena reminded herself to take heart, but found she could not sleep for worrying. Her bedroom lay at the rear of the house and the call of crickets waxed strong, yet she could clearly distinguish the gentle roll of the surf as she sat on the sill of her opened window.
She searched the murky, blackened sky for stars, remembering the night Brogan had taught her the trick of manning the ship’s wheel. “Be my small helm,” he’d said. “It’s possible for the mightiest to be moved by even the most humble.”
Lorena never suspected the day was soon approaching she would need to be exactly that for Brogan. His small helm. Could she move him to faith in his dark hour? For even if he did come to her and was willing to hear her out, what words could adequately convince him of the good that had come from this terrible deceit?
Did he lie awake at this very moment, blinded by grief and lost in hopeless thoughts?
She might not be able to see Brogan for herself or speak to him personally, but she could look upon his ship. She could steal another glimpse of the Yankee Heart and assure herself he was aboard. She could send her prayers out to him over the waves.
Before venturing anywhere, Lorena checked in on Drew and found him whining in his sleep.
“Papa . . . papa . . . papa . . . nooo!”
“Wake up, Drew.”
Lorena pulled him into her arms. “Shush,” she told him. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here.” She stroked the curls off his forehead and rocked him in her arms as he slowly began to wake.
He sat up suddenly. “Papa?”
“The captain is on his ship, in bed, like you . . . sleeping, as you should be.” She wiped his face and produced his doll from behind her back. “Look, I’ve brought you Captain Briggs.”
He scowled and wrenched the doll from her hands, tossing it to the floor. Lorena understood. He didn’t want a doll made to look like his papa. He wanted the man he truly believed to be his father.