Redeeming Gabriel

But people in the South had to eat, she thought as she donned her clothing. And they had to defend themselves.

Dressed in her faded indigo day dress, she plopped down at the dresser. As she pinned her curls into bunches over each ear, she prayed for Jamie. For his safety, for his health, for his wisdom in guiding the ship. He had many men under his command. So much responsibility.

She wondered if Jamie knew about the fish boat. Probably so. Papa confided in him, and he’d always been crazy about anything that moved in the water, from tadpoles to warships.

He wouldn’t like that she knew about it. He was as overprotective as their father. But she was a grown woman now. As soon as Harry could come down south again without being blown to bits figuratively and literally, she was going to marry him and start her own family. She was tired of being under Papa’s thumb. Tired of being bossed around by Portia and restricted by Lady’s ideas of gentility.

She closed her eyes. Please, Lord, end the war quick.

She found Jamie in the foyer directing Horace and Willie in the disposition of several brass-bound leather trunks. He was dressed in a dark naval uniform, his fair hair spiking across his forehead in the humidity, sweat streaking his blond mustache and beard.

He looked up and grinned, swiping his sleeve across his brow. “There you are, Miss Slugabed. Knitting socks and writing letters last night wore you to a frazzle, I guess.”

Camilla straightened the embossed buttons on her brother’s coat. The top one hung by a thread. “Here, let me—” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Don’t move, I’ll be right back!”

She hurried to the parlor, where she’d spent several hours sewing before bedtime, and returned with a thickly quilted rectangle of gold-brocaded taffeta, folded several times and fastened with a frog closure. “I made this for your trip.”

“Thank you. Er—what is it?”

Camilla pulled Jamie down to sit beside her on the bottom step. “Look, I’ll show you.” She unbuttoned the frog. “It’s a housewife.”

Jamie laughed. “Just what I need on a cruiser.”

Camilla unfolded the fabric so he could see the row of five pockets and a flat square piece stuck through with needles and pins. “It’s got everything you need to make small repairs to your uniform. All the girls are making them for their men going off to war.”

At the wobble in her voice, his expression softened. “I’m not exactly going to war. Don’t you want me to send this to Harry?”

“I made it for you.” She gave him a mock frown. “And you’d better come back with it in person!”

“I plan to. No Yankee steamer’s going to catch the Lady C.”

Camilla slanted a glance at him under her lashes. “Suppose the Yankees were able to build a boat that could attack without you seeing it.”

Jamie leaned back on his elbows. “You mean like in the fog? Well, they wouldn’t be able to see us, either. Nobody sails in weather like that.”

“No, I mean—what if a boat could move underwater? Couldn’t they blow you up before you knew they were there?”

He exploded with laughter. “A boat sailing underwater? Oh, Milla, you’ve been reading too many penny novels.” He pulled her into an affectionately rough hug. “Either that or you truly don’t have enough to occupy that fertile imagination. Thanks for the gift.” Releasing Camilla, he refolded the housewife and slipped it into his coat pocket. He stood and offered her a broad, callused hand. “I’ll put it to good use. Now be a good girl and go pack me a lunch. Make it generous, ’cause it’ll be a long time before I get Portia’s sourdough bread again.”

Packing him a lunch was the least she could do. He was always the soul of generosity to her. On the way to the kitchen, she touched one of the little carved coral camellias dangling at her ears—her birthday present. Jamie knew how much she adored camellias, how she waited for their blooming every winter.

Portia was up to her dimpled elbows in bread dough and was not best pleased by Camilla’s interruption. “That boy picks the inconvenientest times to go sailing!”

Smiling at the anxiety behind Portia’s grumpy frown, Camilla pulled bread and cheese out of the bin and began to carve thick slices of both.

Portia heaved a sigh as she added an apple tart and some sausage left over from breakfast to the hamper. “I hope those Yankees got poor eyesight tonight.”

“Me, too. God preserve him.”

Jamie wasn’t afraid of anything, especially not a Yankee clipper. He took life exactly as it came, laughing at the worst dangers, even her question about the fish boat. Was his amusement genuine—or did it serve the purpose of hiding his thoughts? Everything with Jamie was usually right on the surface. Maybe her assumption that he knew about the boat was wrong.

She paused in the kitchen doorway, absently swinging the heavy hamper. “Portia, I heard something funny last night on my way in the house.”

Portia’s head whipped around. “Shush, little girl! Mind yourself!” She jerked her head toward the back door. “Come out this way, and we’ll walk around the house.”

As they picked their way through the kitchen vegetable garden, Portia drew close, sharing the handle of the hamper. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” she whispered.

“I forgot,” Camilla retorted. “I was busy getting scolded!”

“Hmph. And didn’t you deserve it. What’d you hear?”

“Did you know Papa had a man in his office in the middle of the night?”

Portia gave her an enigmatic look. “If he did, it isn’t any of my business.”

“They were discussing an underwater boat. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Portia snorted. “In the book of Jonah.”

“It could happen. And Papa’s planning to get rich off it.”

Portia smiled. “He’d have a long way to go before—”

Camilla stamped her foot. “He’s financing this—this fish boat, to sell to the government so they can blow up Yankee ships.” At Portia’s quizzical look, she began to walk again. “I know it sounds incredible. They built it in New Orleans, then sank it when the Yankees took over. Now they’re going to rebuild it right here in Mobile.”

Camilla had half expected Portia to pooh-pooh the idea, much as Jamie had. But the housekeeper’s broad, smooth brow puckered. “Men and their all-fired gadgets,” she muttered. They reached the flagged walkway in Lady’s flower garden. Portia abruptly stopped and handed Camilla the hamper. “Take this to your brother, and tell him I said happy sailin’.”

“But what should I do? You know, about the boat?”

“You ain’t a baby anymore. You heard more than’s good for you, so keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. Don’t you do anything.” Portia’s fierce gaze speared Camilla. “You hear me?”

“S-so you believe me?” Portia’s belief was infinitely more frightening than Jamie’s amusement.

Portia’s shoulders lifted. “I believe you heard your papa gettin’ up to some shenanigans. We’ll see how important it is.”

Numb, Camilla watched Portia head back to the kitchen. Eyes and ears open would be no problem. Mouth shut was another story.

Chapter Three

Gabriel shoved through the swinging doors of Ingersoll’s Oyster Bar and stood in the baking afternoon heat swinging a newspaper-laden canvas bag against his leg. Sooner or later his quarry was bound to surface.

Last night he’d returned to the riverboat with Delia and, while she went to her room to bathe and change, conducted a discreet search of the hold of the boat. This canvas sack—discovered behind the barrel he’d been sitting on as he waited in the dark for his courier—might or might not be a clue to the imposter’s identity, but it was all he had.

Embarking early this morning on a search, he’d put on his overanxious-relative face and questioned the proprietor of every establishment on Water Street. Downtown Mobile abounded in oyster houses, lagerbier and wine shops, and gambling and drinking saloons. Women were plentiful in those places, but no one admitted to harboring one dressed as a man.

He was about to start over on another round of the search when a violent tugging on his coat sleeve caught his attention. He looked down.

A scrawny little man in a red knit cap danced at his feet, beady pink eyes glinting under bristling eyebrows. “N—now—” The man’s head stretched and retracted as he struggled for words. “Now—where’d you get that?”