Eugénie entered the large drawing room where her maman could usually be found. She sat at an old desk against one wall. “Maman?”
A soft breeze from the windows fluttered the sheets of paper hermamanheld in one hand. The other was fisted and pressed against her lips.
“Is it more bad news?” A few months ago, her step-father, Nathan Wivenly, the only papa she had ever known, had been on board one of his ships returning from England. Not a day from St. Thomas, they had been attacked by pirates who had murdered Papa and the crew. Ever since then, the import-export business the family owned had begun to fail. The problems were due to the lost goods, or so Mr. Howden told her mother.
Eugénie didn’t believe him. Papa always had insurance. If only she had proof the manager was being dishonest, she’d be able to assist her family. Papa would expect it of her. She dug her nails into her palms. “Maman, if you will allow me to look at the books, I know I can help.”
“You remember the last time you asked to see the accounts?” Maman stuffed the documents in the desk drawer. “Mr. Howden threatened to leave.” Tears filled her eyes. “How would I replace him? I know nothing of commerce.”
It was on the tip of Eugénie’s tongue to say they couldn’t do worse, but that would only further upset her mother, and it might not be true. She’d learned to run a household, not a company. Since her younger brother, Benet, would inherit the business, Papa had seen no point in teaching her. “Have you heard from the Earl of Watford?”
Maman’s lips formed a thin line as she shook her head. “Your father always said I could rely on his nephew. I’m sure we shall receive an answer soon.”
Yet would the letters they’d sent by fast schooners arrive in time? Could the earl act before they were ruined? Eugénie pushed away the thought that despite what Papa had always believed, the earl did not truly care about his uncle’s family living in the West Indies.
“Perhaps”—she searched for something, anything to help make her mother feel better—“you could ask Baron von Bretton for help, or Mr. Whitecliff.”
Maman shot to her feet.“Eugénie!”She took a breath. “I appreciate you trying to be of assistance, but it is for me to deal with.”
Ever since Papa had died, Maman had become a shadow of herself, and was in no condition to act. Her brown eyes, which had always been alight with laughter, were now haunted. In just a few short months, small lines had begun to bracket her mouth. Something had to be done, and soon, before they hadn’t any money at all.
“I am one and twenty. I have a brain and can add columns.” Why was her mother being so stubborn? “Please allow me to—”
“No. You cannot make a good marriage if you are involved in business.” Maman locked the drawer to her desk. “Your papa would not ’ave approved.”
Maman hadn’t pronounced the words in her usual clipped British fashion. The fact that her French accent had become more pronounced was sufficient evidence of the strain she was under. Since marrying Nathaniel Wivenly when Eugénie was six, and joining the English society in Jamaica, then in Saint Thomas, Maman had cultivated the English ways, including their way of speaking.
“Oui, Maman.” Well, Papa was no longer here. Eugénie wanted to stamp her feet in frustration, or throw something, or break down in tears. She wanted to mourn as well, yet how could she when someone had to take care for the family? Why was it that men, even perfect ones like Papa, always seemed to manage to get themselves killed at the worst possible times?
“If need be,” Maman said in a weary voice, “we will travel to England. I am sure Papa’s family would not turn us away.”
The Earl of Watford had done nothing to help so far. Eugénie gritted her teeth.“Naturellement.”
“English, Eugénie,” her mother reminded her, “English.”
“Yes, Maman.” Eugénie stifled a sigh. There was no point in continuing a discussion that only upset her mother. “I must go into town later for some new ribbon. Is there anything you need?”
Maman gave a weary smile. “I shall be grateful if you will bring me some pressed paper. I must write the invitations for your sister’s birthday party.”
Another reason to discover what was going on: Her brother and sisters’ futures were at risk. Jeanne, the youngest sister, would be six next week. The others were not much older. Even though they were in mourning, Jeanne would have friends over for cakes and lemonade. Eugénie nodded and turned to the door.
“Don’t forget your bonnet.” Her mother frowned. “You are becoming much too brown, and remember to take your maid with you.”
Eugénie ran back to her mother and embraced her. She wouldn’t tease Maman any more, but proper or not, she would find a way to help her family. Papa always said she was the cleverest one in the family. Surely she could think of something. Eugénie could not leave their well-being to the vagaries of fate, the ocean, and an earl who lived thousands of miles away.
Will braced his feet on the ship’s deck and held the telescope to his eye. A large group of buildings stood at the water’s edge. “That’s it then, the free port of Charlotte Amalie?”
“Indeed.” Captain Black grinned. “It will soon be one of the largest ports in the West Indies, if not the entire Caribbean.”
“What are those spaces on the hills?”
Black looked where Will pointed. “Stairs used as streets. They are called step streets. They make going up and down the hills easier. I’ve heard some European cities have them, as well.”
Anything to make hills easier would be welcome. Drat, he hated hills. He’d been ecstatic when his family had moved to Hertfordshire, where it was nice and flat.
Wharves lined the shoreline, each with its own warehouse, followed by taller buildings that spread up the three hills behind the city. Palm trees punctuated the landscape in an orderly manner, and a large fort jutted out into the harbor. The numerous ships at anchor added to the picturesque view, but what really struck Will was the color of the water. Ranging from darker blue to turquoise closer to shore, it took his breath away. He’d never seen anything as beautiful, and right now he’d like to dive overboard. The sun wasn’t even directly overhead and already the day promised to be hot. How the devil did gentlemen dress in suits here? Or perhaps the question should be why Englishmen must behave as if even the tropics were no warmer than the home counties.
He passed the glass back to the captain and rubbed a hand over his short beard. Tidwell had been threatening to take the razor to Will’s face, but with the movement of the ship, his valet had resigned himself to merely trimming his beard. Once on land, he’d have a good shave, though whether his coats would still fit him was uncertain. His normally lean frame had filled out as he’d handled the ship’s lines and sails. Will smiled to himself. Learning to sail had been every bit as fun as his friend Marcus had told him it would be, though remembering some of the terms had been a bit more problematic. Now he needed to turn his attention to the problem of the Wivenly family of St. Thomas.
