Page 63 of The Salamander

At that, Jon and Thorndike exchanged a look. Soon enough, Spain would be their own port.

The girls begged for a song, so Mrs. Mason led them in Rejoice, the Lord is King, their young voices rising with enthusiasm. Jon and Thorndike joined in, their deeper tones rounding out the hymn, and even Silas rumbled along on the chorus.

Jon leaned back in his chair, watching the scene: his kin gathered, his daughters safe, Mrs. Mason’s hand gently stroking Polly’s hair. Across the hearth, the governess looked up, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment. Something unspoken passed between them, fragile, yet warming as surely as the fire.

When the song ended, Thorndike said, “I’ll be at the shipyard tomorrow, Captain.”

“You must stay with us until we sail, Israel,” Jon replied. “Mercy would expect it, and we like having you. Your room upstairs has been kept ready in anticipation of your arrival. Rest easy tonight, and tomorrow we’ll see the Pickering and think of masts and rigging again.”

As the house settled, Martha gathered the mugs and Silas tended the fire. The children’s laughter faded upstairs as Thorndike shepherded them off. Soon only Jon and the governess lingered in the parlor, the fire reduced to coals.

Jon stretched his long legs before him, the silence companionable. “It seems quieter than it should,” he said at last.

Mrs. Mason smoothed Polly’s abandoned doll across her lap, her fingers lingering on the fabric. “That’s what happens when the children sleep. The house holds its breath.”

He turned his head, studying her in the lamplight, the curve of her cheek, the strength in her posture, the presence that steadied his very home. “You’ve given them more than lessons,” he said quietly. “You’ve given them love and joy.”

Her gaze met his, her voice low. “And they, and you, have given me a place I thought I’d lost forever.”

Jon felt the words strike deeper than any broadside. He should have looked away, but he could not. For one heartbeat too long he let himself imagine what could not be spoken aloud, at least not now.

At last he rose, slowly, and took up the taper. “Best we see the house to rest,” he said, though his voice was huskier than he intended.

The governess rose, too, smoothing her gown. She paused at the open door, her eyes lifting once more to his. “Good night, Captain.”

“Good night, Mrs. Mason.”

He waited until her footsteps faded above, then bent to bank the fire. The last glow winked beneath the ash, steady and enduring, like the memory of her brown eyes that would follow him over the sea.

Salem Shipyard, the next morning

FROST RIMED THE rigging of ships along the harbor, but the sun shone bright in a clear blue sky. The timbers of the Pickering rang with the blows of caulkers’ mallets as Jon and Thorndike stepped onto the frozen planks of the shipyard. Their breath smoked in the morning air, the smell of tar and oak shavings sharp in their lungs.

Thorndike rubbed his hands together briskly. “A night by the hearth almost makes a man forget how bitter our winter mornings can be.”

Jon’s eyes were on his ship. The new rigging gleamed with fresh tar, the seams of her planks tight with pitch, the great yards braced square. “Better we remember that the sea won’t go easy on a ship that’s been coddled. She must be sound from keel to truck.”

“Aye, you’re right, Captain.”

A gang of shipwrights passed with spar timbers on their shoulders, nodding respectfully as they went. One lingered to report, “Caulking’s near finished, Captain. Next we’ll scrape her bottom clean and pay it with tallow, new standing rigging to set up, sails near done in the loft, gun carriages wanting fresh trucks, and the pumps overhauled before you dare the Atlantic. All told, she’ll be fit for sea in April.”

Jon gave a curt nod, though his jaw tightened. A month and more to wait. Still, there was no hurrying such work. “See it done, then.” He strode up the gangplank and laid a gloved hand on the rail, noting the familiar grain, as though reassuring himself she still breathed. “She’ll ride low with Derby’s sugar, but she’ll carry. And she’ll fight if she must.”

He stood a moment, watching the shipwrights busy aloft and below, the shipyard clattering with hammers, saws, and the creak of timbers. The sea tugged at him, as it always did, but at least the delay meant he would be in Salem for Easter.

Thorndike leaned beside him, his grin quick. “Captain, if she’ll not be ready till April, do you suppose I might spend March in Beverly? Mercy would thank you for it.”

Jon glanced at him, his stern mouth easing a fraction. “You’ve a wife now, Israel. You’d best learn she’ll expect all the time you can give her. Go when the work allows, but be back when I call. Spain will not wait.”

“Aye, Captain,” Thorndike said, satisfaction plain on his face.

Jon allowed himself the smallest smile, then turned toward the wharf, boots crunching on the frost-rimed planks. “Come, Lieutenant. The shipwrights have their work, and we might as well find what tidings the world has for us. The coffeehouse will tell us what news the war brings.”

The coffeehouse on Central Street was thick with tobacco smoke and talk when Jon and his first officer pushed in from the cold. Men looked up from their tables, calling greetings as they doffed their hats. Word of the Pickering’s prizes still lingered, but now the air was hungry for news from farther afield.

At the back, Elias Derby sat with George Williams, their cups steaming. Derby’s sharp gaze fixed on Jon at once, while Williams’ expression warmed into a smile. “Captain. I hear from the yard your ship won’t be ready till April?”

Jon inclined his head, settling his gloves on the table. “Aye. Caulking’s near done, but new rigging, sails and even carpenters are taking more time. She’ll not be fit to sail before then. It seems I’ll be home for Easter this year.”