Prize of My Heart by Lisa Norato
1
Duxboro, Massachusetts, 1815
Captain Brogan Talvis was rounding the stern of his newly constructed square-rigged ship when, from across the shipyard, the sight of a young woman took him aback.
He’d ventured out for an early private inspection—his first sight of the 880-ton merchantman—and what a beauty she was! Soon she would be christened the Yankee Heart. Until then, she rested complete and ready to be launched on a pair of stocks that sloped down the bank into the Bluefish River.
All he’d wanted was a few solitary moments alone with his precious ship. An opportunity to reflect on all that had brought him to this seaside town on the south shore of Massachusetts and the mission that still lay ahead.
Brogan had fully expected the yard to be deserted at this early hour—only moments ago he’d caught his first glimmer of the sun behind a horizon of bay inlets and calm waters—but there, in the flat stretch of marshland beyond, among the tall, gently swaying grass, sat the girl on a broad, flat rock.
He found it odd that she should be alone in such a place. Her legs were drawn up, spine curved in a long, slim arc with her forehead resting on her knees, her face concealed from view. Lengthy whorls of ginger-brown hair escaped a white cotton kerchief knotted atop her head. She wore a checked gingham dress the color of mustard seed relish and Boston brown bread. From beneath its ruffled hem, the toes of a pair of serviceable shoes pointed toward the river.
Brogan stepped forward, the soles of his black leather Hessians crackling over a clutter of wood chips—golden new chips scattered and heaped over faded aged ones. A summer breeze stirred the air, hinting of salt and carrying the fragrances of fresh lumber and pine tar.
As he looked more closely, he noticed the girl’s muslin apron stained with spots of a deep berry red. A kitchen maid, no doubt, but what business had she idling about a shipyard at this hour of the morning? Her presence annoyed him.
Why should he feel so drawn, so curious about her, when a matter of far weightier import occupied his head and heart?
For this was a pivotal day in the life of Captain Brogan Talvis. It marked the inception of his plan to reclaim the son who’d been lost to him three years ago, when his wife abandoned their child to strangers and refused to reveal where she had disposed of the boy.
What could have caused Abigail to do such a horrible thing?
The question tortured him. Brogan would not rest until he learned the mystery behind her cruel deceit and uncovered anyone else’s involvement, for surely, Abigail could not have acted alone. But oh! He had since discovered the whereabouts of his son. It was Nathaniel Huntley, one of New England’s most notable shipbuilders, who had possession of Ben.
Thoughts of Benjamin had haunted him the entire three years he’d captained a privateer in the War of 1812. Never a day passed when Brogan didn’t miss him, when his heart didn’t break and pine with love for his lost son. At the most inopportune times, he’d felt torn between a desire to return and search for Ben and a duty to defend America against England’s oppression.
At last, both his search and the war were over.
Ben’s name had been changed. He lived under a new identity, residing in a home of wealth and comfort, but in the end, who could be trusted to love and care for the lad, strangers or Ben’s own flesh-and-blood father? Why would a prominent shipbuilder secretly accept another’s child as his own? To raise as a servant? During his own youth, Brogan had suffered firsthand the exploitation of innocents.
He turned his attention to the Yankee Heart, admiring her full apple-round hull, supported by live oak, twenty-two inches thick. He raked his gaze upward to the rise of her stern. Her beautifully carved arch board with its graceful moldings and pilasters surrounded her quarter gallery like a framed picture. She would play a vital role in rescuing his son.
Even so, it was another woman altogether who called to him now. Brogan found he could not walk away from the maid without inquiry, could not ignore her no matter how much he’d prefer to. She had intruded upon his privacy, and he would have turned without a backward glance to return to his lodgings on Washington Street for a hearty breakfast and a hot bath, but something about her intrigued him.
Her stillness. She remained frozen in place, so much so that he wondered after her welfare. Could this young miss be in distress? Was her head bowed in tears or perhaps in mourning? Did she suffer some malady?
He would inquire. Perhaps he could be of assistance. And if the maid worked for the Huntley estate, as reason would suggest she did, perhaps she could be of assistance to him.