Hope ran for the front door and threw it wide. Her gait was not unlike a woman running from a collapsing building. She didn’t know where she was going as she stepped into the cold, dark night and she didn’t care. Anywhere had to be better than here!
Chapter 19
Angelique’s black wool coat hung from Hope’s shoulders and her head was concealed beneath the generous folds of the hood. Hope looked about the wharf in confusion. Stretching out before her was a profusion of masts, spars, and crisp white canvas. Merchants hustled in all directions, clogging the wide street—Commercial Street, she thought—which seemed to be a dock in itself.
Salt spray kissed her cheeks and neck, scenting the air with a pungent aroma as it mixed with the tang of citrus, figs, raisins, and the constant odor of fish.
Except for a few odd glances, her presence went unnoticed. And why not? The people milling about this seaswept place were as varied as the people cloistered safely in their grand homes on the hill. Hope would have blended with them even if she’d left the black cloak at home.
No, she quickly corrected herself. Any woman visiting the docks at this hour of the night, decked out in faded trousers and a flannel shirt, was begging for trouble. At least, that’s the way the merchants would see it.
Hope sighed in frustration. She’d bolted from the house so quickly that she’d given no thought to what she would do once she reached the waterfront. She was lucky common sense had overrun her when it had. Having reached the stables, panting and breathless, she’d realized that, no matter what her destination, she would need money to get her there. Stealthily, she’d returned to the house, picked the lock on the study door, and, almost childishly quickly, located the drawer containing the safe. The lock there was convinced to open as easily as the one on the door. She had taken only as much money as she thought she would need, appeasing her guilt by telling herself the total was less than what Drake owed her for services rendered, then followed her nose to the docks.
Now she stood stupidly, the salt breeze tossing the cape around her ankles as she wondered what to do next. Her father had purchased the tickets that carried them around the Horn to the gold mines, so she didn’t even know how to go about doing that! And even if she could find someone to sell her a ticket, how would she know which ship to board? The wharves stretched on both sides for what seemed like miles. One ship, though splendid to look at, looked very much like the next, and the next. The names of each, painted beneath the jutting figurehead on the bows, were indecipherable in the pale silver moonlight.
“I won’t give up,” Hope muttered to herself. In that split second, she felt a surge of self-confidence to rival any she’d felt before the fire in Thirsty Gulch. As quickly as it had come, it was gone. With determined steps, she moved closer to the activity on the docks. She was jostled rudely, and the toe of her boot was trod on twice, but she made it.
“Excuse me,” she said to a muscular laborer. The tendons on his bare forearms were rigid as he lowered a heavy crate of lemons onto the planks. He smelled of fish and other things Hope didn’t want to know the origin of. The crate dropped to his feet with a loud thud, rattling the shorn timbers beneath her boots. “I—um—I was wondering if you could help me.”
“Wi’ what?” he demanded briskly. He looked up from his chore, obviously annoyed. He was a dark-haired man with a Scottish brogue, piercing blue eyes, and a crisp, no-nonsense manner.
“I need to buy passage to Virginia. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Ha!” He set his meaty fists on his even meatier hips and glared at her as though she’d just turned into a mermaid. “I load cargo, I unload cargo. I do no’ sell tickets.”
He turned back to his job, but Hope was nothing if not persistent. Shuffling her feet, she tried again. “I really hate to bother you, but it’s important.” She rushed to add, “Not that what you’re doing isn’t, it’s just that—”
“Yew are no’ gonna leave me alone till I help yew, are yew, lass?” he asked with more insight than Hope would have given him credit for.
She smiled weakly, a gesture that softened the determined timber of her voice. “No.” Taking a deep, steadying breath, she added, “You’re the only man around here who looks like he could understand English, let alone speak it. I really wouldn’t have bothered you if it weren’t important.”
“O’Roark!” a voice boomed over the soft sound of slapping waves, emanating from the ship secured at the wharf. “I pay you to work, not talk. Get a move on!”
The one named O’Roark turned toward the ship. Although she could see no one on board who might have uttered the command, O’Roark obviously did. He nodded briskly then turned to Hope.
“We carry cargo, no’ people.” He nodded to the northern end of the wharf. “Try Lewis Wharf. The wharfinger thar migh’ be able tae help yew. Ask fer Davis—and do no’tell him who sent yew! It’d cost me me job.”
Davis! It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Hope nodded quickly, thanked him profusely, then rushed away. She dodged an occasional groping hand and clumsy passerby. The salt breeze continuously caught at her hood as she rushed down the street. She didn’t mind. At least while busy adjusting the coarse material she was spared having to think of what she would say to this “Davis” when she found him.
As it turned out, what she said had little to do with the matter. Davis, a tall, middle-aged, brutish man, refused to listen to a word. He was busy, he said. Too busy to be catering to a flighty young woman looking for a ship. When she’d pressed, he’d briskly informed her that the only ship leaving for Virginia any time that week was leaving Wednesday morning—tomorrow—at dawn, and that the passenger list for it was small and already full. Not even a hammock strung in the crew’s quarters remained.
The whole time he had talked, the man’s eyes had stayed glued with fascination to the masculine boots peeking out from beneath the cloak’s hem. It was almost with relief that Hope parted company with the arrogant man. Almost. She still didn’t have a ticket yet.
Deep in thought, she strolled to the dock’s edge. She leaned her shoulder against a large, bared tree trunk sticking up from the planks and coiled with rope, and fixed her gaze on the moon as it danced on the rippling surface of the water. The sound of waves crashing and people talking echoed in her ears as she inhaled deeply of the rich salt air. This time when the hood blew back, freeing the cascade of chestnut waves, Hope didn’t try to stop it. She was surprised to find that she actually liked the feel of the sea breeze rustling through her hair, grazing her cheeks and making them sting.
"So, you’re heading for Virginia?” a worn, cracking voice asked from behind.
Hope gasped and spun around. Barely two feet away stood a woman, her shoulders thick and hunched, her slight form completely enveloped in midnight black. Her lips were so thin it appeared, at first glance, that she had none. Her face had more wrinkles than a slept-in cotton shirt. Only her eyes—sharp and clear with the wisdom of age—revealed the feisty spirit locked inside her ancient body.
The woman leaned heavily on her unadorned wooden cane as her shrewd green gaze raked Hope from head to toe. “Heard you talking to Davis,” she said, as though the brief explanation meant she hadn’t really been eavesdropping. Like her eyes, her voice was crisp and direct. “The ship’s all booked.”
Hope hesitated. She would have backed up a step, to put some distance between herself and the gray-haired old woman, but the mooring post wouldn’t allow retreat. The woman seemed to be waiting expectantly for Hope to say something, but since she wasn’t exactly sure what, she said nothing.
“Hmph!” the old woman snorted, her wrinkled nose creasing still more. She waved a crooked hand at Hope, her gaze shimmering with confusion and not a little disappointment. “Bah! Thought I could help you, dearie, but if you can’t talk, I’ll guess I was wrong.”
Help her? What could this crooked old woman do to help her? Hope wasn’t sure, but she intended to find out. What the hell, it wasn’t as though she had any other options at that point.