~ Prologue ~ Maggie ~
* The Week Before *
On the way back from Claytonsfield’s small market, I paused to stare at Hubert’s furniture shop on Main Street. I’d always been fascinated with the facade. It was a one-story building, yet the false front made it look like two stories, with a squared off roof.
Even though it wasn’t real, it always made it the most impressive building in the row.
Setting my shopping basket down for a moment, I stared up at the odd structure, thickened from years of bright white paint that aged quickly in this dirty little town.
It was an interesting quirk that most people likely didn’t think about. But I knew a few things about placing a facade over the front of something else to make it look far more grand than it actually was.
My entire life was a facade.
It always had been, but lately I’d been thinking about my life much more seriously. Since turning nineteen a few months ago, I’d been told I must always look pretty as a picture, only associate with approved people, and generally act like I’m much higher status than I really am.
I was constantly reminded these days to think about the future, and what it might hold when I secured a proper husband.
I hoped it held cheaper prices at the market. I hoped it held more for me than being handed over to a man I didn’t choose for myself.
How I wished that my life could be my own.
But that was a dream far too large for my tiny life.
Hoisting my wicker basket, I lugged it toward home along the worn dirt path, passing by the docks. There was a crowd gathering. At first I wondered if there had been an accident, or if Morty and Murray, the town’s only real entertainment, had docked.
Blinking hard, I finally noticed the ship at the very end of the pier.
Large ships didn’t come to Claytonsfield very often, and when they did they usually bore the insignia of royalty or some large trading company. This particular ship didn’t need a coat of arms to state what sort of mission it was on. What sort of men traveled on a sloop with slightly tattered gray sails, and five hulking men offloading barrels and crates?
Pirates.
Even when they called themselves independent traders, and did fair business with the townspeople, we knew. We all knew.
It was one of the many, many things not spoken of here. Like how the wealthy barely looked at poor folk, so maintaining the facade of being slightly above poverty was the most important thing ever.
I found myself drawing closer to the townsfolk gathered timidly near the dock. Watching fishermen and other seafarin’ folk prepare and launch their boats had always been a favorite pastime of mine.
It was a tranquil ritual, with ropes and sails getting adjusted a certain way, and everything being stowed neatly in place. There was a perfect order to everything that gave me a sense of peace.
It was clear that these men did not have two rowdy brothers aged fourteen and fifteen to deal with.
Staring at the magnificent ship at the end of the dock, I wondered how long it would be in port. Where it was going. Where it had been.
Leaving Claytonsfield for any length of time would be heaven on earth.
Hearing a murmur behind me, I turned to see Mr. Smithson and Mr. Helsby walking along the avenue together. Immediately I darted into the crowd of people, tucking my head down as much as possible.
As far as I knew, those two wealthy but debaucherous men had very little in common except apparently they both wanted to wed me. How much was at my father’s insistence and how much was actual desire, I didn’t know, and most certainly didn’t care.
Turning my back to them, I resumed admiring the strange ship. A man on the deck passed a crate to a man on the dock. He walked a few yards, then passed it to another man, as the four of them formed a chain to move the crates quickly along the pier.
The huge but young-looking man at the end stacked everything on land. His sandy hair swished around his face as smiled at the townspeople for a moment. “You’ll all keep an eye on our cargo for us, won’t ye?”
Half of the group scattered, but I tried to stay hidden beside a few older ladies. They were the gossips of the town, likely digging for fresh information.
Then a tall, strapping man carried a crate straight down to the end. He might have been in his mid-forties, but with his sun warmed skin, it was hard to tell. His black shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing thick, strong forearms.
As he came closer, his sharp features became more clear. I’d never seen such a handsome man. He was absolutely striking. His rough, rugged expression did nothing to diminish the beauty of his sculpted face.
I hadn’t
realized that I was overtly staring until those deep blue-black eyes met mine. He winked. I jumped in surprise as he placed the crate right at my feet. “Good morning, miss.”
His dark brown hair was a bit long and shaggy, rustling in the breeze picking up from the sea as he pretended to tip his hat, even though he wasn’t wearing one.
I’m not sure why this gesture struck me so hard, but I smiled more than I should have, trying to hide my grin behind my hand.
“It’s all right,” he continued, “I understand that nice girls aren’t allowed to speak to dirty old traders. So just blink twice so that I know you’re having a lovely day today, pretty girl.”
His attention on me felt strange. Like a prickle in my lower belly was awakening for the first time. I found my eyes locked onto his lips and wondered what it would feel like if he kissed me. Those thoughts were shameful, but I wasn’t quite in control of them.
The older women beside me stepped back, practically clutching each other in their excitement to witness this scandal first hand.
There was nothing else for me to do. The man was right. I wasn’t permitted to speak with him. Especially since the prospect of my marriage was likely being discussed right now.
Staring into those expressive eyes, there was only one option. I slowly and deliberately blinked twice, making him grin widely. It just wasn’t natural for one man to be that handsome, but when he smiled, it was nearly otherworldly.
“Aye, that’s a good girl. If you’re ever of a mind to come for a sail,” he waved toward his ship, “the Midnight Treasure is at your service.”
That was crossing a line, I was pretty sure. No matter that my heart fluttered from the sound of his deep, gravelly voice. Grabbing my basket, I rushed away without a word, hearing peals of rich, dark laughter behind me.
For the rest of the day, as I worked hard in the kitchen trying to make three days’ worth of food stretch for four or five, I kept sneaking looks out the window down to the docks.
So many people with places to go, and plans to make. Men who were in command of their own lives. What a wonderful feeling that must be.
That evening, as the large ship sailed away, I felt a strange sense of melancholy. I wished I lived in a world where I could have spoken with that interesting dark-eyed man. Shared a cup of tea, even, and asked about his travels.
But alas, my life was not truly my own. As soon as my father could negotiate a dowry, I was to be married off so my family could be rid of me.
I could feel the situation closing in around me like the dark, thick stone walls of the chilly storage cellar under the house. The room my brothers locked me inside at every opportunity.