Chapter Eight #2
A servant carried in a tray of petite cakes and bite-sized pastries. She took one with a dollop of fruit spread on top and popped it in her mouth. “This is lovely.”
Several of the girls smirked, then made a show of taking dainty bites from their selections. Josephine fought the urge to roll her eyes. Why fashion something so small if not to be eaten in one bite?
Time crawled by, the room bathed in insufferable heat.
Josephine shifted back and forth in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
Oh, how she longed for the airy freedom of her skirt and blouse.
Remarkably, none of the other girls showed any signs of discomfort.
When the twins suggested they all go stretch their legs in the garden room, she nearly leaped from her seat.
But Abigail stayed put as the girls filed from the room.
Mrs. Crompton noticed her longing glance after them. “Miss Montclair, why don’t you join the others while I catch up with dear Abigail.”
Josephine smiled and stood, her napkin dropping from her lap. With an apologetic smile, she picked it up and placed it on the chair, sending a silent thanks that the other girls weren’t there to see her make yet another mistake.
In the hall, she hesitated at the double doors leading to the garden room.
So far, every move had felt like a blunder, pushing the girls to dislike her.
This moment offered her an opportunity to show them she could belong.
She pulled her shoulders back and cracked open the door.
The young ladies stood in the center of the room, whispering amongst themselves.
“Did you see how she holds her teacup? Like a sailor clutching a tankard.”
The girls tittered and Louisa leaned in. “Governor? I’m sure she was raised among pirates. To think, poor Mrs. Crompton probably has no idea what sort she let in.”
“Poor Mrs. Crompton? You mean poor Abigail? She’s the one who has to tote her around like a stray kitten.”
Heat pressed at Josephine’s eyes and she slowly backed away from the parlor door, letting it fall softly shut.
She swallowed, looking behind her to where Abigail still sat with Mrs. Crompton.
Suddenly, she didn’t want to pretend anymore.
Her feet propelled her to the front door and she slipped outside without any notice.
Once on the wide verandah, she took a deep breath of humid air.
Better.
She stood next to a wide column, facing the square.
The children had left, leaving the green grass quiet and bare.
A massive oak tree stretched its long branches over a bench, leaving shifting patterns of light and shade.
With a quick glance at the closed doors behind her, she started down the steps.
Once in the square, she sank onto a bench, closing her eyes to take in the quiet solitude.
A breeze stirred the leaves above her, carrying the sounds of the city.
Carriage and wagon wheels clattered nearby, but the lively murmur of distant voices, a few bursts of boisterous laughter, drew her attention.
She opened her eyes, her gaze drawn to a side street where the sunlight reflected from colorful fabric.
Craning her neck, a multitude of canopies came into view with a crowd milling about. A market.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the bench and she twisted back to the Crompton’s house.
The doors remained closed. No one had noticed her absence.
With a smile, she left the square, her boots clicking against cobblestones.
As she neared, the bustling market came into full view—a maze of woven baskets, cloth stalls, and wooden carts.
The scent of ripe melons, fresh baked bread, and vibrant flowers swirled together on the back of her palette.
One vendor offered bundles of summer herbs, their leaves gleaming in the afternoon sun.
The hum of conversation and the clink of coins blended with the rhythmic calls of vendors, all competing for attention along the sun-soaked street. Josephine’s lips curved as a woman next to her negotiated for a bundle of mint. She passed a spice stall, breathing in cinnamon, nutmeg and clove.
Her heart caught as the blue of a naval uniform stood out among the bustling crowd.
A small group of sailors haggled with a farmer’s wife over baskets of eggs and piles of sweet potatoes.
Josephine slowed as they lifted crates carefully into their arms, the early-morning sun glinting off the polished buttons of their coats.
The man who had just paid turned, and her breath caught. Lieutenant Caldwell.
His eyes settled on her, widening in unmistakable shock. “Miss Montclair?”
For a moment, all she could think about was the fountain—the way she’d flailed, the splash, the scandal of it all. And from the look on his face, he clearly hadn’t forgotten either.
Fire danced across her cheeks. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, words abandoning her as she sent up a silent plea for the earth to swallow her whole.
Taking a deep breath, she curtsied with as much grace as she could summon. “Hello, Lieutenant.”
He glanced around, brows drawn together. “Are you… alone?” She nodded and he frowned. “You should not be out unchaperoned.”
So many rules.
She sighed. “Seems everything I’ve done since getting here has been all wrong.”
The hard lines in his face softened. “No harm done. The market’s fairly safe. Still, I’d feel better escorting you through it.” He nodded to one of the men holding a crate. “Bring those all to the ship. I’ll be along shortly.”
He offered his elbow, and with a swallow, she set her hand upon it.
They made their way down the narrow lane, weaving between stalls. After she’d paused to examine yet another display of goods, he gave her a lopsided grin. “Do you have a market in Tortuga?”
“Yes.” She stepped around a basket of squawking chickens. “It’s only a few tables though, nothing like this.”
She slowed in front of a fruit stand, marveling at the wide variety of produce.
Familiar bananas, pineapples, and papaya were stacked next to a multitude of items she’d never seen.
The vendor caught her eye and pointed to a pile of round, blushing fruit.
It must be fruit. No vegetable could possess such a lovely pink color.
“What’s this?” She ran her fingertips over the soft fuzz of the one closest to her.
Lieutenant Caldwell chuckled. “You’ve never seen a peach before?”
She shook her head as he plucked one from the pile and held it to her nose with a knowing smile.
The velvety skin brushed against her upper lip, and she inhaled tentatively.
A scent unlike anything she’d known—soft and sweet, with a delicate floral undertone, almost honeyed.
She drew in another breath, the fragrance lingering on the edge of her senses, warm and inviting.
“Go on, take it,” he urged, his voice low and coaxing, as though sharing a deep secret. “It’s just ripe.”
Josephine’s fingers hovered before gently cupping around the fruit. She lifted it from his weathered palm, the slight give beneath her touch hinting at the truth of his claim. “How much for one?”
The vendor flashed a grin. “For a lovely lady like you? Three cents. Finest peaches you’ll find in the entire market.”
She pulled out her reticule, but the lieutenant stilled her hand with his. “My treat.”
A burst of heat traveled up her arm. “Thank you.”
Lifting the peach to her mouth, she took a small bite.
The soft skin split between her teeth and a rush of sweet nectar flooded across her tongue.
Her eyes widened at the rush of flavor and she took a bigger bite.
This time, juice dribbled down her chin and she laughed, leaning forward so it dripped to the ground.
“This is incredible.”
Lieutenant Caldwell stared at her, jaw slack, eyes fixed on her mouth as if the world had narrowed to that single, perfect bite.
He let out a strangled cough and pulled a handkerchief free. “Here, I think you’ll need this.” His voice came out rough and uneven.
She took it, fumbling as the soft fabric brushed her fingers. What a picture she must have made, taking that bite. A new rush of heat blazed across her skin, hot as the sun. Dabbing her lips, she pressed the cloth a little harder than necessary, hands trembling as she tried to steady herself.
He tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat. “Well… Shall we go to the waterfront?”
They crossed the street and came to a stop at a railing near the embankment, trading the hum of the market for the gentle lap of waves against the docks. The sun cast a bright shimmer over the surface of the river, where barges laden with cargo bobbed low in the current.
“It’s unlike anything I ever imagined. My father used to talk about Paris and how far its streets and shopping districts stretched, but I never believed him. Seeing Savannah now, I hardly think I could handle a city like that.”
One side of his mouth twisted up. “I dare say you, of all people, would find a way to manage it.”
“You overestimate my abilities, Lieutenant.” A faint smile tugged her lips. “But tell me, how are your preparations coming along?”
“My men have all received their orders, and cargo should be secured by nightfall. I am anxious to set out and see this Thorne matter concluded.”
He nodded down the river, where the now familiar masts of the Tempest tucked between two merchant ships.
A warm breeze stirred off the water, tinged with the musty tang of silt and wet timber.
Her eyes drifted closed as the wind tugged at her hair, loosening tendrils from their pins.
The distant calls of gulls mingled with the occasional clatter of oars and shouted directions from dockhands.
Here, by the water, she could breathe freely.
No pretense. No judgment. Just the river, the sun, and the last whispers of the peach’s honeyed sweetness lingering on her tongue.
And a handsome man at her side. She opened her eyes to find his blue eyes locked on her, shadowed with something she could not name, intense and unreadable. He jerked his gaze away. His profile, sharpened in the golden light, commanded her attention.
“So—”
“I—”
They spoke at the same moment, and both fell silent, caught in the brief collision of words. After a long pause, she summoned a tentative smile. “Thank you for walking with me.”
He nodded, shifting his weight. “Yes… well, it was a—pleasant diversion from a busy day.”
“Isaac? Miss Montclair?” Samantha approached, wearing a simple blue day dress. “What are you doing here?”
Lieutenant Caldwell grinned. “I found Miss Montclair wandering around the market on her own. I feared leaving her might lead to another tumble into misadventure.”
Samantha raised an eyebrow and stepped between them. “Go on, then. Finish what you were doing. I’ll get Miss Montclair back to the Rosses.”
“Very well, ladies.” He inclined his head in a crisp bow, then turned toward the docks with a purposeful stride.
Samantha’s blue eyes glinted in the sunlight as he descended the steps and disappeared from view. “So, how did you end up in the market? I can’t imagine Abigail letting you out of her sight for even a moment.”
“Well, we went to tea and…” she trailed off, afraid to offend.
Samantha gave her a knowing look. “I did try to warn you. Let me guess, Mrs. Crompton’s?”
Josephine nodded and Samantha sighed. “I can only imagine how that felt for you.”
Pushing her toe against the cobblestones, Josephine frowned. “I was so excited to go, but was made to feel quite unwelcome.” It was her turn to sigh. “I never thought something as simple as tea could be so… complicated.”
Samantha patted her hand. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Those girls live in a world of their own. Their reaction to you would have been the same no matter who you were. Besides, they probably just felt threatened by your beauty.”
Josephine couldn’t help but snort. “I’m pretty sure that was the last thing on their minds. All they cared about was how different I am from them.”
With a wry smile, Samantha gazed out over the water. “You know, it’s not our differences that set us apart from the world—it’s the courage to embrace them.”
Josephine cocked her head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Grin widening, Samantha took her arm and turned away from the water. “It means there’s nothing wrong with being different. Now, let’s get you back to tea before anyone gets worried.”