I’d lost everything, everyone who mattered. I’d rather be a lunatic than to live without ’em.
CHAPTER 2
October 18, 1812
Portsmouth, England
The blue and purple flowers of the ironwood tree he’d pinned to his waistcoat had flattened and almost lost their scent. P. Daniel Thackery stood on the docks, awaiting his turn. Dozens of people were ahead of him hoping to talk with an officer of the HMSBelvidera. He’d already lost four hours holding his place in the slow, snaking line.
Daniel traced the buds of the lignum vitae—as these flowers were called in Jamaica—from stem to stamens; he kept breathing, kept sampling the concentrated honeyed fragrance. It lulled the dull panic stirring in his chest.
Phoebe had to be alive.
Looking up in Portsmouth’s cloud-filled sky, he wondered how much time he had before the rain fell upon the throngs of people coming for news of the lost ship, theMinerva.
More left the line.
Daniel took a few steps forward. He could clearly see the officer—a lieutenant, by the braiding on his onyx jacket—mouthing words that made the hearers weep. That wouldn’t be him, sent away with nothing, no dreams, no proxy bride from Jamaica.
The salty breeze stole one of Daniel’s petals. Like a purple feather, it fluttered, the air carrying it to the edge of the dock. It hung there, teetering.
Closing his eyes, he remembered the jig he’d done this morn preening in front of his dressing mirror. A pile of discarded waistcoats sat at his ankles—lavender, indigo, purple. He’d driven his valet ragged going in and out Daniel’s legendary closet to bring him the different hues and different buttons—from brass to silver to pearl wanting to match the lignum vitae, Phoebe’s favorite.
Vanity was a dangerous luxury for a wealthy man who’d built his fortune from careful investments. Yet, a man valuing a good tailor wanted to look perfect. It wasn’t every day one met their wife.
All his plans couldn’t be lost because of the sea.
Another couple wept and departed from the lieutenant.
Daniel looked away, down to his dusty boots. The gloss his man-of-all-work, Marc Anthon, put on them seemed wasteful now.
“The cursed sea did it!” An old man stormed away. He was right to blame it.
The sea ferried folks near and far. Yet, it had been forced to swallow the souls beaten by war, killed by piracy, or discarded by the slave trade.
Perhaps that’s why the water revolted. Every so often it became violent like a drunk, punching at anything—innocent or guilty.
Why else would theMinerva, a peaceful ship porting innocent passengers go down?
“Phoebe Dunn is alive. She’s alive.”
He repeated this like a chant and clasped the flowers—a love token inspired from the letters they’d exchanged over a courtship of eighteen months. At times, she’d send two at a time. Daniel devoured each.
Dragging his feet with the forward movement of the crowd, he hoped to God when it was his turn, he’d receive a miracle.
He opened his greatcoat. He’d grown miserably warm witnessing a woman, fifteen or twenty people ahead, sob. Blinking, he couldn’t look away, until he jabbed his palm with his dulled cravat pin. The prick hurt but drew no blood.Bottle it all—all the disappointments, the despair, all the pain.
That was his motto since age six. Sorrow changed nothing. It didn’t repair his mother’s heart, didn’t bury a wayward father. It definitely didn’t restore theMinervato the harbor.
White sails should billow and flap, anchored to its strong mainmast. The ship couldn’t be a smashed derelict hull left adrift until the HMSBelviderafloated by and picked up the pieces.
His new bride—the darling woman who’d won his cautious, hesitant heart—should walk down the gangplank with the surprise she said she’d bring tucked under her arm. She should be where the lieutenant stood, searching for Daniel, a man with wilted lignum vitae.
Her eyes—he’d discover if they were the deepest brown, the color of harvest wheat, or darker like the leather spines of his trusty law books.
Anything would be beautiful.
He merely needed to see her, alive.
