James nodded, still looking anywhere but at Kieran, his jaw clenched tightly and lips pressed into a thin line.
An awkward silence fell between them.
“How fares your father?” Kieran attempted to change the topic. “I know the accident that ended his naval career was a sore trial. I regret I haven’t seen Charles in what? Three years, at least?”
James stilled and then slowly lifted his gaze. Again, Kieran noted the boy’s unusual eyes—not quite gray, but not quite green either. Like the ocean under a cloudy sky.
“My father is dead.” James spoke the words flatly. No emotion. But the turmoil in his gaze spoke of grief and anguish.
Kieran gasped, heart lurching in his chest.
“Dead? When? How?” He shook his head. “Why was I not informed—”
“Ye didnae ask now, did ye?” James interrupted, voice hard. His voice had a husky timbre and hummed with the brogue of the Firth of Clyde.
“I apologize, lad. I should have spoken with ye afore now.” Kieran shook his head. James did not need his ineffectual apologies. “How did your father . . .” His voice trailed off.
“My father died last month.” James blinked quickly and looked away. “He had been ill for quite some time with consumption. The accident sapped his strength and work was difficult for him. Facts ye might have known had ye bothered to write with any frequency. But I guess thelassesin Plymouth are more important to ye.”
The scathing bitterness in the boy’s tone cut deep. Yes, Kieran had once had a bit of a reputation for being wild but that had been years ago. One did not become a ship’s master at such a young age without learning to modulate one’s appetites.
Regardless, that did not negate the truth in James’s words.
Kieran should have, at the very least, written more often. He could have even visited, he supposed. It was just . . .
Charles had always kept his family separate from his crew. After all, Captain Fyffe was of a decidedly higher station in life. It had honestly never occurred to Kieran that he would be received, were he to call upon Charles at home.
And Kieranhadwritten when he was in port. When all of Charles’s correspondence had finally caught up with him—his friend’s pleas to find work for James aboard ship—Kieran had replied instantly with promises to help the lad.
That said, he should have realized that the accident which ended Charles’s naval career would have caused a strong reversal of fortune for the family. Obviously in looking at it now, Charles had been too proud to refer to such things, and so Kieran had assumed all was well. That despite his accident, Charles as a gentleman had other sources of income.
But Kieran should have been wise enough to read what wasnotsaid. That Charles required assistance and financial support, along with a position for James.
Instead, Kieran had done . . . nothing.
James had every right to be bitterly angry with him.
Silence.
The ship rocked. Sails snapped. Someone called from high up the rigging.
“I’m so sorry, lad.” Kieran swallowed. “You’re right. I should have written more often. I should have visited.”
“Then why didn’t ye?” the lad bristled. “Why can I trust your words now?”
“’Tis a valid question,” Kieran sighed and gave the boy the truth. “I took so long tae reply to Charles’s letters because these past few years I have been sailing the South Pacific. My first employ as ship’s master was on a merchant vessel bound from Sydney. Even the Royal Mail doesnae reach that far, I’m afraid. I wrote as soon as I could.”
James snorted, but a wee frown dented his dirty brow, as if Kieran’s words were not what he expected.
“I did wrong by your father, and yourself, by extension,” Kieran continued. “Captain Fyffe was the best of men. I’m right gutted tae hear that he is gone.”
“Me, too.”
More silence.
“How can I help ye? Dinnae ye have an older sister at home?”
James flinched. “Eilidh? Eilidh is . . . no longer with us.”
