Prize of My Heart Page 22

  “Because, sir, I understand how it feels to have a child you love suddenly snatched away. How far would a father go to save his child? Would he launch a ship after her?”

  Huntley blinked, his eyes moist, at which point Brogan sprang off his seat and strode to the mantel. His eyes landed on an oil painting hanging above. Likely an ancestral portrait, for its somber-faced gentleman subject bore a strong resemblance to Nathaniel Huntley.

  Impatient for answers of his own, yet knowing he had more to confess, Brogan whirled about to face the man. “When I realized I would need to spend time with Lorena if I were to get anywhere near my son, I had no idea I would fall in love with her or that her love would so change my heart. It is my great desire to wed your daughter, sir. I understand how disturbing this news must be for you, but believe me when I say things have worked themselves out to the benefit of all. Lorena, Drew … that is, Ben, and I have been happy together on the Yankee Heart. I am prepared to do all in my power to give them the bright future they deserve. If that necessitates first proving my character to you, then so be it. I am determined. Lorena has forgiven me, and now I beg your forgiveness, as well. If not for you, my son would have perished alongside Abigail. I don’t know how it came to be that he was placed in your home, but clearly he has thrived and been well loved here. For that, I shall remain forever in your debt. But as I’ve explained to Lorena, all the charity in the world cannot replace the bond of blood. I shall remain a part of my son’s life, and he shall know a father’s love. However, it is my hope you should give us your blessing, sir, to be a family.”

  As Brogan waited impatiently for an answer, he noticed Huntley’s hand begin to tremble. What vile thing had Abigail done that, even dead, she could cause a man of Huntley’s sophistication to be distraught over a discussion of her?

  Huntley leveled his gaze with Brogan’s and, leaning back, folded his hands over his rounded belly. “I shall not withhold my forgiveness, Captain, nor my blessing. Your character is proven in faithfulness and deed. Further, it would seem I owe you an apology, for I never doubted my brother when he told me you were dead. Indeed, I never gave you a second thought. You were a complete unknown. The child was the only innocent. Now here you have resurfaced, alive and hale, a hero to your country and a hero within my own home. You are worthy of my daughter’s hand.”

  At those words Brogan felt more happiness than his heart could contain. He thought of Lorena and Ben, of their beautiful faces and the way they smiled at him with adoration and trust. His burden lifted. Joy exploded inside him, the future dawning brighter than he could ever have imagined. “Thank you, Mr. Huntley, sir.”

  He could scarcely believe his good fortune. There remained just one final matter to put his mind at rest. “And now I feel I deserve some answers of my own. Lorena directed me to you as the one who should give them. What was your relationship to my wife that you should have aided her in her scheme?”

  Huntley rose to address him. “Lorena was wise in sending you to me. You’ve traveled a long, difficult road searching for the truth, and I am the only person alive who can give it to you.”

  Turning, Nathaniel Huntley crossed the room to a Chippendale secretary and idly skimmed his fingertips over its opened cherrywood desktop. As he glanced up, the sadness in his eyes unnerved Brogan.

  “My brother Stephen and I had little in common as far as siblings go,” Huntley said. “Stephen followed his own path and at a young age married into the Bainbridge family of Boston. You’ve heard the name, I take it?”

  “Aye.” Every Bostonian had, but Brogan failed to see what Stephen Huntley’s marriage had to do with either himself or his son. Before he could voice his impatience, however, Huntley raised a hand to silence him.

  “Indulge me, Captain. Please. For without the whole story, you might not believe me.”

  Brogan nodded. The whole story. At last.

  “The Bainbridges are one of Boston’s oldest and most respected families, merchants by trade, and Stephen’s marriage to Ellen Bainbridge assured him the highest possible social standing and great prosperity. The couple enjoyed prominence in Boston society and produced five beautiful children. Stephen had wealth, power, and family, but like many men of affluence, all was not enough. He kept a mistress.”

  Brogan made the connection and found he was hardly surprised. “Abigail?”

  Nathaniel Huntley’s forlorn expression confirmed it. “With time, Stephen’s marriage began to suffer. He did not hide his infidelity as well as he believed. His good name was threatened, not to mention what effect a scandal would have on his wife and children. To make matters worse, this mistress, a widow who for years believed she was barren, conceived.”

  A cold tremor rocked Brogan to his very bones. What was Huntley implying? He searched the shipbuilder’s eyes, eyes so gravely serious they spoke louder than words.

  “Abigail was with no other man at the time she was with me,” Brogan asserted. “I know this for a fact.”

  “No, Captain, she was with child before she met you and deliberately led you to believe you were her baby’s father. I regret I must inform you that you have been the victim of a cruel deceit. Drew … Benjamin is not your son. He is the offspring of my brother Stephen. My nephew. But not even he, poor child, knows this. Lorena and I have allowed him to believe his father perished at sea.”

  Brogan struggled against accepting such a possibility. He couldn’t think. He felt numb. Abashed. With all he had endured for his son’s sake … no, it could not be true. It was inconceivable.

  “I would have thought it beneath you to concoct such a wretched lie in order to keep my son,” he fired out, though in his heart Brogan knew Nathaniel Huntley was not a man to speak falsely.

  Huntley’s cheeks paled between a set of ginger-brown side whiskers tinged with gray. “Sadly, it is the truth, Captain.” The man’s brow creased as he stepped away from the secretary to draw closer to Brogan. “My brother welcomed the prospect of an ill-born son as much as he did the tainting of his good name. Marriage was out of the question, and his mistress—your wife—was unwilling to release her hold over one of the richest, most powerful men in Boston society. She held a strange power over Stephen, but they decided they would not see each other for a short time. Meanwhile, she was to marry and pass her pregnancy off on another man.”

  Brogan stalked the room like a caged animal, as if by pacing he could walk off the pain and humiliation that filled every pore of his being. He thought back, recalling the day he first set eyes on Abigail as she passed over the cobblestones in her chaise. He recalled the interest in her smile. She returned to that same waterfront locale by the shops, seemingly innocent but hoping to meet him again as though by chance.

  Brogan knew all along she had been singling him out, and it had flattered him. No ordinary seaman would dare approach such a fine lady, but Brogan had been just bold enough to open the millinery shop door for her. Abigail was equally bold enough to inquire after his name.

  In his vanity he let himself believe she truly loved him, for why else would she have married him? He was but a common sailor in want of employment.

  Here he thought himself clever in outwitting her and recovering their son, but she would have the last word again, reaching beyond the grave to deliver this final, crushing blow.

  The truth hit him with such force, Brogan could scarcely breathe. It took a moment to realize Huntley was still speaking.

  “… grew increasingly jealous of his lover’s husband. Stephen desired to resume the affair, but one person stood in his way. A seafaring youth caught in the middle of his treachery, whom I now discover was you, Captain.”

  Brogan quit pacing to grab on to the mantel for support. The yellow cream walls closed in on him, and it was all he could do to remain in the same room with Huntley and listen to the rest of his sordid tale.

  “Aside from the knowledge my brother kept a mistress, I was unaware of what had been going on, or even of Benjamin’s existence, until Ste
phen appealed to me just weeks before I took custody of the boy. Stephen confessed to having used his influence to secure Abigail’s young sailor a position with a privateer sailing out of Bristol, Rhode Island. He later made arrangements to finance a privateer schooner, secretly arranging for this sailor to be promoted to captain and sent on a dangerous mission with a sloppy crew and little experience in commanding them. A certain death. He swore you were gone, never to return for the boy. Benjamin was alone in the world, I believed. But it seems Stephen grossly underestimated you.”

  Brogan felt as though he were drowning in a sinking black hole, listening to Huntley’s voice from underwater.

  His greatest accomplishments had been a lie, from his marriage to his placement among the crew of the Black Eagle to his captaincy on the Wild Pilgrim. Most important, his son did not belong to him! Abigail and her lover had stripped him of all pride, and hate for them overwhelmed him. His wrath demanded to be vented, but on whom? Both his enemies were dead.

  “Stephen admitted things had gone awry,” Huntley was saying. “He said he should have sent the woman away to have his child, then disposed of him in an orphanage. By the grace of God, Stephen came to me instead. He knew I would never turn my nephew away. I was outraged at my brother’s behavior, but I kept his secret, for I knew exposure could only bring suffering to my brother’s family, not to mention the damage to Benjamin. With me, the boy would be loved and cared for, free from the scorn of his illegitimacy. I took legal action to assure he carried the Huntley name and would become heir to all that entailed.”

  Nathaniel Huntley frowned with deep regret. “My sympathies, Captain, but you should know Benjamin did not forget you. When he first came to us, he cried for his papa in his sleep. You see now why we continued to let him believe his father did not leave him, but died at sea.”

  A great pang wracked Brogan’s chest in the form of tears he could not shed. Until he’d come along, the lad rightfully believed both his parents were dead. The truth would break his heart.

  Brogan had one final question. “The fire that took Abigail. Your brother was rumored to have been seen near the blaze. Was Stephen with her that night?”

  Huntley nodded, his expression grave. “I ministered to my brother on his deathbed and entreated him to ask forgiveness for his sins. It was then Stephen made another shocking confession to me. He had wanted to end their relationship, but your wife would not hear of it. She flew into a rage, threatening to go to his family. Stephen abandoned the notion of discontinuing their affair until one wintry evening … their last together, he knocked over a candlestick, quite by accident, while she lay sleeping. He told me he watched it burn up the carpet, an idea forming. The flames crept to the draperies, and before he knew it, the room was ablaze. He had barely enough time to steal off in his nightshirt. He slipped away quietly on his horse, leaving the poor woman to die. He kept to alleys and back roads, riding through the snowfall, then walked across his own fields to wait in his stable for one of his servants to retrieve dry clothing from the house. He got away with murder, and all the while his wife, Ellen, thought he was at his club. The irony was, in making his escape, Stephen caught pneumonia and set in motion his own demise.”

  It was a wicked tale, and Brogan could not bear another moment of it. He made for the door and flung it wide, his emotions ready to explode from the grief and anger swelling inside him.

  Upon his exit he nearly collided with Lorena, who was standing just outside. She stared up at him, uncertain, her small face lost in a thick cloud of spicy-brown ringlets, her soft brown eyes larger than ever. She must think him the biggest fool. She’d known the truth and yet had allowed him to believe they could be a family.

  Brogan stormed past her, down the hallway, and out the front door. Outside, the smell of salt and sea mulled about in the humidity. Clouds had begun to move in again. He heard Lorena calling for him as he ran toward the beach.

  He pushed the jolly boat into the surf, then climbed in and grabbed the oars.

  And started rowing.

  20

  Lorena chased Brogan out onto the front stoop. She called to him as he sprinted down the brick walkway, past the flower beds and box elder toward Squire Huntley Road. He was headed for the shore, and as she lifted her hemline to follow, her father halted her.

  “Let him go. He’s suffered a great shock and needs time alone. You must give him that time, Lorena, for if you intrude upon his grief before he’s had a chance to face it on his own, he may say hurtful things you’ll both regret later. Only the captain knows the extent of his pain, but once he’s accepted facts, he will return to you.”

  A sob arose from deep within her throat.

  She had yet to accept Brogan’s offer of marriage. She yearned to tell him she loved him. He needed to know the indispensable place he held in both her and Drew’s lives. Brogan wasn’t alone in his pain. She felt it, too.

  She’d never forget the haunted, stricken look in his eyes as he opened the door to her father’s study. Lorena lifted her face toward the wharf and, through a blur of tears, watched Brogan shove the jolly boat into the bay.

  “What did you say to him, Papa? Did you give him your blessing?” Lorena asked of the man she’d always turned to in times of trouble. This time her papa could not make it all better. “Tell me everything you said to him.”

  Her father wrapped her in his arms. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, Lorena, but understand this. Nothing any of us could have done would have made the news any easier for the captain to bear. What happens next is entirely up to him. We can offer our comfort, but in the end he has to make his own choices.”

  “I can’t not reach out to him, Papa. I need to do something.”

  “The captain’s desire was to give a father’s love, and now he feels that dream is lost. He believes he is alone in his grief. You and I know that’s not true, Lorena. We know God loves him, but before Captain Talvis will hear our words of encouragement, he needs to experience a father’s love for himself. The love of his heavenly Father.”

  “How, Papa? How can I convince Brogan of a heavenly Father who loves him at a time like this? How can I help him if I cannot speak to him?”

  “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 h
er 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?