The old woman seemed not to notice the disturbance, or, if she did notice, chose to ignore it. She hobbled along at the same rate, her gait as precarious as ever.
They walked down one narrow, twisting street after another, always staying close by the waterfront. Bentley glanced up. “Ah, finally,” she sighed, pointing a crooked finger at the building to Hope’s right. “End of the line, praise the Lord! Got a room here for the night. Where are you sleeping, Hope-who-doesn’t-need-anyone?”
Hope’s flicker of hesitation made the answer painfully obvious. She rushed to cover the slip, “I—I’m staying with friends in the city,” she replied, nervously fixing her gaze on the toe of her boot. She hated lying to a woman who had been nothing but honest and direct—but she also hated the thought of accepting any more of the woman’s charity.
“Didn’t get to be my age without knowing how to lie and knowing when I’m being lied to,” the crackling voice said. The green eyes sparkled shrewdly. “Looks like you need practice there, too. Don’t worry, dearie, I’ll teach you the ropes.” Her crooked fingers gripped the brass doorknob and she looked back at Hope. “Well, come on, then. Wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight wondering what happened to you. And I’d probably miss my boat in the morning looking for you, too.”
“But I—”
“Bah! Swallow your pride for once, and move that cute little behind. Getting dern brisk out here, and I’m too old to be standing in the cold wind arguing. Keep me out, and it’ll be your fault if my rheumatism starts acting up again. Can you live with that on your conscience?”
Yes, the woman did have a way about her. Reluctantly, Hope followed. She knew better than to protest such a blunt-mannered argument. And, in truth, she was too tired, too drained, to fight. She decided that, just one more time, she would accept Bentley’s generosity—and pay her handsomely for it, as well as her passage to Virginia, come morning.
Chapter 20
The masts of the clipper ship, Witch of the Waves, stood straight and proud against a crystal blue, cloudless sky. Glistening white sails caught the wind, billowing back and forth as though playing with each hearty gust. Her bow was ornamented with the carved figure of a woman in flowing white, the glowing eyes trained seaward. Gracing the stern was a witch floating in a sea shell, at the port, an imp riding a dolphin.
Fanciful figures, Hope thought as she leaned over the rail. The salty wind played with the loose chestnut waves as they floated to her waist in a waterfall of confusion. The black cloak whipped around her ankles.
Her seasickness had passed remarkably fast, considering how ill she’d been on the illfated trip to California. Her companion was not so lucky. As she had been for the last six days, Bentley was below decks, curled up on one of the beds in their stateroom. The poor woman suffered from seasickness worse than anyone Hope had ever seen. She lay awake at night, moaning at each groan of the planks, each splash of waves against the hull, as the ship rocked to and fro. More than once Hope had caught her cursing the great-nephew who’d insisted on such discomforts. For an old woman, her curses were imaginative!
Today, however, they had reason to celebrate. This morning Bentley had kept down half a bowl of broth and a sliver of dry bread. Also, the faded-rose color was finally beginning to return to her weathered cheeks.
Hope sighed, crani
ng her neck and letting the crisp salt spray sting her cheeks. The old woman’s bluntness had taken some getting used to, but she had adjusted quickly. In fact, she was finding she actually liked Bentley, sharp tongue and all. Right now, she was waiting patiently for her new friend above deck, ready to make good on her promise of a stroll in the mid-afternoon sunshine—Bentley’s reward for finishing breakfast.
Apparently, the other passengers had the same idea. Hope glanced up at the sound of footsteps and a throaty giggle.
A young couple strolled by, apparently immune to the inquisitive stares their passing elicited. No one talked to the Millers. No one had to. It was obvious from the way they clung to each other, murmured to each other, looked at each other, that they two were newly married. And, of course, the time they spent closeted in their stateroom spoke for itself.
She sent the pair a covetous glance as they disappeared through the doorway leading below. Although neither was striking alone, they made a handsome couple. Hope thought that it was the aura of love that seemed to surround them that made the pair so attractive, and so damned enviable.
“Still ogling those two?” Bentley asked as she hobbled over to Hope’s side. “Don’t see what’s so dern interesting about ‘em. Seen one young, lovely couple, you seen ‘em all.”
“I don’t know,” Hope replied thoughtfully. When the wind blew a thatch of chestnut hair in her eyes, she swiped it back. “It’s just—oh, I don’t know. I guess I’ve never seen two people so much in love before. I envy them.” She looked at Bentley, confusion mirrored in her eyes. “Is that the kind of love you had with George?”
Bentley’s sharp gaze softened as she looked out over the foamy whitecaps. The tumultuous bed of water matched the green eyes to perfection. “Maybe not the same, but dern close to it. But never mind an old lady, what about you? You feel the same way about your man?”
“I never said I had a man,” she replied cautiously, her back instinctively stiffening. In the last six days she had shared many secrets with Bentley, but that wasn’t one of them. This was the third time in two days that the subject had been broached. So far, she had managed to avoid a direct answer. This time, however, she had a feeling Bentley wasn’t going to back down.
“Didn’t have to tell me. I know love when I see it sparkle in someone’s eyes. I know pain when I see it there too. I see both in yours.” She squinted at the bright sun, her eyes disappearing behind folds of flesh as she patted Hope’s arm. “Might as well tell me about him, dearie. Got four more days on this godforsaken boat. It’d give us something to talk about.”
“There’s nothing to say,” she replied tightly, pulling away from the suddenly insistent touch.
“Bah!” The old woman waved the argument away with a swipe of her crooked hand. “You never want to talk about anything but me. Don’t think I’ve ever known a woman who talked so little! The only information I’ve gotten from you is what I’ve forcibly yanked through your teeth. And don’t say you’d bore me,” she snapped, taking the words out of Hope’s mouth. “Boring is trying to stay awake at the Ladies’ Guild, or,” she held up a hand so that a wrinkled thumb and forefinger were only a thread apart, “stitching itty-bitty squares into a wall-sized quilt. Men are never boring. Besides,” the green eyes twinkled with a mischief normally reserved for twelve-year-olds, “I love a love story. Start with his name.”
Of course, she couldn’t tell Bentley about what had happened between herself and Drake, no matter how badly she needed to talk. So, Hope changed the subject. Or, more correctly, she tried. “Speaking of names... you never did tell me where you got yours.”
“And I’m not going to. Not now. We’ve got more important things to discuss.” The bushy brows rose high in her crinkled forehead. “His name?”
“His name,” Hope repeated with a sigh. “Ready for that stroll yet, Bentley?”
“No. I want his name. Unless you forgot it.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she replied defensively. She caught the slip, but it was too late. The old woman’s eyes were shimmering with victory, and it was easy to see Bentley wasn’t about to back down until Hope told her the whole sordid story.
Leaning her elbows atop the rail, Hope clasped her hands tightly together, and diverted her attention to the golden rays of sunlight dancing on the glassy surface of the water. Sun-ripened gold, she thought. The exact shade of Drake’s hair.