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The old man chuckled. "It'll be the most fun I've had since I was a boy, playin' at pirates down on the beach."
She smiled back at him. "Can I do anything to help?"
"Not a thing. Go sit in the garden and get some sun. You don't want to go back to New York, lookin' pale as a gh-..."
He tried to bite back the word, but it was too late. Kathryn's eyes met his and they both began to laugh.
* * *
She had intended to see if she couldn't drag a settee onto the terrace, stretch out in the sun and read her way through Matthew's diary. But after her talk with Hiram, the terrace and the garden had lost their appeal.
Besides, she'd been here for days and she'd yet to walk down the cliff to the sea. So she collected the journal, a glass of iced tea, and made her way to the cove.
The path itself was steep, the footing uncertain enough to make her pause a couple of times, but when she reached the bottom, she caught her breath with pleasure.
An arc of white sand bordered an azure sea. Lustrous shells, as intricate and beautiful as tiny sculptures, were strewn across the sand; tall coconut palms swayed under the touch of a gentle breeze.
Kathryn sank down under one of the palm trees, leaned back against it and stared at the waves lapping the shore. It was so serene here; she almost dreaded opening the journal. Something—intuition, maybe—warned that what she was going to read was not going to be pleasant.
Hiram was at the house, installing new locks, fixing the shutters and looking for secret passageways but deep in her heart she knew the truth. Nothing he could do would change anything. The answers to what was happening at Charon's Crossing lay inside this leather-bound book and it was time to find them.
Slowly, she opened the diary and began to read.
An hour slipped by, and then another. The sun moved higher into the sky but Kathryn was aware of nothing going on around her. She was caught up in a period that had existed almost two centuries before. It had been a dangerous time and an exciting one, and Matthew's brief entries made it clear that he had enjoyed every moment.
His ship was fast. His men were loyal. The Caribbean Sea offered prize after rich prize to Atropos and her dashing captain...
And Catherine Russell had stolen his heart.
An entry written on a day in March of the year 1812 was typical.
Today we have taken yet another French merchant ship. My men are jubilant, as am I. We are amassing riches beyond our wildest dreams and a reputation that precedes us on these blue waters. How I long to hold my sweet Catherine in my arms again and tell her of this victory.
Kathryn lingered over the last line, and over others like it in the entries that followed. There was no mistaking what had happened. Matthew McDowell, the man who had thought to conquer Catherine Russell, had been himself conquered. He was, at long last, in love... and it was tearing him apart.
His journal said it all.
I am torn with jealousy. Cat says we cannot yet let her father know that we have pledged our hearts to each other. I agree that she knows him best but I am beside myself with anguish when I see her laugh and flirt with the titled English bastards who flit in and out of Charon's Crossing. They all speak as if the silver spoons they were born with are still stuck in their mouths and look at me as if I were some exotic, dangerous specimen best viewed at a cautious distance.
Cat laughs when I protest.
"Why, Matthew," she says, slipping into my arms in the darkness of the rose garden, "you are jealous!"
There is no sense in denying what is so painfully obvious. Cat teases me gently, then assures me that I have no need for jealousy. She says her actions are meant to keep her father from realizing that she and I have fallen in love. He insists, she says, that she should marry well. Cat, of course, sees that a marriage to me would meet that condition. But her father must be persuaded, and she is convinced he is not ready to listen. She weeps sometimes, when she tells me of this, and it breaks my heart to see her so distressed.
I have thought about the problem a great deal these past weeks and I am convinced there is no longer a need for subterfuge. I am an American, yes, and I surely have no title, but in all other ways, I am an appropriate suitor. I am captain of the most successful privateer in these waters. I have amassed more than enough money to provide well for a wife. Most importantly, I adore Catherine. I will devote my life to making her happy. What father would not be glad to give his daughter in marriage under such circumstances?
Cat agrees but begs me to be patient, but I am running short of that commodity. I also know what she does not, that the international situation is fraught with danger.
The news from home makes it clear that President Madison and his advisors have finally grown weary of dancing to the English tune. Though I have profited by their dalliance, I am, at heart, a patriot. I, too, have tired of the game. We fought hard for our independence from British tyranny; that we succumb to it again makes my blood flow hot. In truth, I will not be unhappy if War comes and I must go from capturing the French to ending the English stranglehold on ships that sail the high seas.
If that happens—nay, when it happens, for I know in my heart that it will—then Catherine must already be my wife. Otherwise, we will be trapped on opposite sides of a War, perhaps lost to each other forever.
Truly, this grows ever more complex. I have tried to make Cat see it but she is too unworldly to understan
d all the ramifications.
"We can always elope," she insists, and then she goes into my arms and kisses me and I am lost to logic.
