Stolen at Sea: Chapter One

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Date with Lord Barnaby Thomas

August 4, 1717

New Bern, Colony of North Carolina

He raced with such speed it seemed to defy the laws of nature. I forced myself not to blink for fear that I would lose track of his dashing and darting. He readied himself to make the jump from the branch of one oak tree to another ten feet away. My heart skipped a beat. Would he make it across safely?

It was too late now. His pursuer was hot on his tail, and this was his only route of escape. His body seemed to hang in midair, time slowed. Until at last, his body gripped tight to the trunk. Landing successful.

His pursuer hesitated at the end of the branch as if weighing the risks and rewards of taking the leap. The hesitation was all he needed, and my little friend scurried quickly out of sight, lost in the foliage.

“Nothing like them in the New World, I am most certain of it.” Lord Barnaby Thomas’s voice pulled my attention away from the squirrels.

“Like what, exactly?” I asked, looking back over his shoulder to see whether the pursuing squirrel had taken the jump. He was nowhere to be seen.

This wasn’t the first time the squirrels in the grove of live oaks on Lord Thomas’s expansive lawn—behind his even more expansive and impractically large house—had provided a mental escape from listening to him drone on about the most trivial and self-absorbed topics.

Over our month-long courtship, I’d been forced to listen to Lord Thomas talk about his favorite shirt not being ironed properly and his tea being served too hot to drink. The squirrels were a welcome respite. I envied how free and daring they were, leaping from limb to limb, no one telling them who to date and where to go. Unlike me, they didn’t have parents pushing them toward a lord who was as drab as he was rich.

“Like these gems, of course.” He looked at me like I had just made an exceptionally indecent remark, not a simple question.

In his hands was a jewelry box with the most outrageous necklace I had ever seen. A massive ruby that was set in gold and lined with diamonds hung in the center. Sapphires, emeralds and pearls were strung on either side of the ruby. I had most certainly never seen anything like it before. The sunlight made the colors even more vibrant. I raised my wine glass in a silent toast to their beauty and took a sip.

I was nearly twenty-three and still single, which to my mother was comparable to having a witch for a daughter. She was desperate to find me a husband, and much to my dismay, Lord Thomas was the one she settled on. When Lord Thomas first joined his parents in the colonies after he finished schooling in London, my mother kept arranging painfully obvious accidental run-ins.

First, she insisted I pick up her dress—that I had picked up the day before—from the tailor again and Lord Thomas just so happened to be picking up a suit at the same time. Next, she invited me to join her for tea with the ladies at the Thomas Estate. And what would you know, none of the ladies showed! Alas, it was just me and Lord Thomas after our mothers whisked away to another room in the house. After her third attempt, I had to intervene.

The conversation ended with me agreeing to a courtship with Lord Thomas for at least a month. If at the end of month, I was not smitten and engaged, my mother agreed to drop the issue and allow me to marry on my own time. Which brings me here, just four days away from the deadline, with about the same amount of affection for Lord Thomas as the local drunk.

“I, too, was quite speechless the first time I saw it.” He sat up taller, adjusted his overly powdered wig and cleared his throat. “My lady, Sloane Patricia Sinclair.”

My full name sounded foreign and patronizing in his crisp London accent, the King’s English.

“Will you do me the honor of being my guest at tomorrow’s Founder’s Ball?”

Oh, how I wished I was a furry brown squirrel scampering about, my only concern remembering where I stashed my acorns. Instead, I was facing the threat of spending an entire evening with a man so horrifyingly boring and self-absorbed that he made me wish I was a squirrel.

“I would love nothing more,” I said through gritted teeth, hoping my forced smile came off charming, and not like I was constipated. With the month almost up, I was hoping this would be our last date. But a promise is a promise and I agreed to say yes to every invitation during this seemingly endless month.

“Delightful! I’m sure the governor will be excited to have a lord attend his ball.” I had to actively refrain from rolling my eyes. Were all lords this obsessed with being lords?

I didn’t even know what he was lord of come to think of it. He must have told me, someone of his vanity surely wouldn’t forget to mention that, but I could no better recall with a gun to my head. I had become so adept at letting his words float in one ear and out the other.

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The steps to the grand front door were lined with lanterns that cast the tall columns in long shadows. Lord Thomas offered me the crook of his arm and I forced a smile as I linked mine with his.

Arm in arm, we followed behind another couple up the stairs. As we entered the main hall, two whispering women huddled together looked up at Lord Thomas. Their tight whispers turned into girlish giggles, and they teasingly waved their silk fans and ogled him with big doe eyes. Oh, just what he needs, more people fanning his giant ego.

“Well, I am pleased to see some people are still appreciative of being in the presence of a lord,” he said, straightening his ascot. This was going to be a very long night.

I looked back at the women, still in a fit of giggles. You can have him, I wanted to shout at them.

Lord Thomas swiped two glasses of red wine from a passing servant’s tray and handed one to me.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“It’s quite charming how quaint it is, really.”

“What is, my lord?” I asked as I scanned the room trying to see what he was talking about. Groups of young couples chatted animatedly with each other and bright colors swirled in the center of the room where pairs danced, the ladies’ dresses ranging from crimson to gold to bright emerald. A quartet played pleasingly, not too slow but not too fast, perfect for dancing. Servers dressed smartly in black & white circulated around the room with trays of food and drink.

This was easily one of the nicest gatherings I had ever attended. What with the high ceilings lined with golden trim and three giant crystal chandeliers lighting up the room. I honestly had no idea what Lord Thomas was referring to. I wouldn’t describe anything in this room as “quaint.”

“Just how the nouveau riche attempts to keep up with the ton. Folks here have a few successful harvests, or whatever it is you people do, and think they are kings and queens.” He let out a hearty laugh dripping with condescension. I wanted to throw my glass of wine at his ridiculously impractical white silk vest.

“These people work hard for everything they own. Many of them came to the New World with nothing but the clothes on their backs and made a place for themselves—like my father.” He looked at me, slightly taken aback by my raised voice. “Maybe you find it quaint because you’ve never had to break a sweat in your life, have slaves and servants to do everything for you—do they wipe your arse too?—and have been handed everything on a damn golden platter?” He looked around to see if my little spat had attracted anyone’s attention.

“Well, aren’t you in a fiery mood tonight?” He patted me on the shoulder and steered me away from the center of the room, ushering me away from the curious eyes leering our way. “Your passion is one of the things I adore most about you,” he said loudly enough for eavesdroppers to hear, as if to assure others he was in on the joke. Once out of earshot of others, he hissed in my ear through the gritted teeth of a forced smile, “Your hysterical outburst is causing people to stare.”

“I thought you enjoyed the attention, my lord.” I stepped out of his grasp and crossed the hall to an open window. It was suffocating being around someone so obsessed with others’ opinions and so detached from the real world. I let the cool, fresh air wash over me and took a few deep breaths.

Maybe if I wasn’t at the ball with Lord Thomas to placate my mother’s obsession with marrying me off, I could have met someone tonight who didn’t make me want to rip out all my hair. But surely my mother doesn’t care about what I actually want in a life partner.

My shoulders tightened as I heard the lord’s nasally voice approaching me from behind.

“My lady, I’d like to introduce Mr. Clayton McCabe.” I turned around and offered a small curtsy to a young man with a wig sitting slightly askew on his head and his jacket buttoned off by one.

“It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Sloane.” He slurred his words so the last two sounded more like “Miss Tiss Slow.” Well, perhaps this drunkard will be more entertaining than Lord Thomas.

“Lord Thomas tells me you like to play shopkeeper.”

“Play shopkeeper?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, you know how little girls play house, pretending to cook and clean and mother and such? Well, you like to pretend to be a businesswoman.” He and Lord Thomas both howled.

“I don’t pretend to be anything, Mr. McCabe.” My icy tone instantly put a stop to their laughing. “I am a businesswoman, and I am damn good at it, too. I’ve been working alongside my father since I was knee-high, and I do not appreciate you mocking me or my family’s business with your ignorance.”

McCabe’s mouth gaped open, and his thick whiskey breath assaulted my senses.

“And do close your mouth before you start catching flies, sir.” I began to walk away, but his hand wrapped around my bicep and yanked me back.

“You stuck-up hag! How dare you speak to me like that?” his face contorted in rage.

Why was it that men always expected women to take their rude comments as a compliment? McCabe was far from the first man to become enraged when all I did was stand up for myself. But I wouldn’t lower myself to his level by lashing back in a shouting match. No matter how badly I wanted to.

“Kindly remove your hand, Mr. McCabe. Apparently, my sweet rose has thorns.”

The lord chuckled awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the conflict. Classic Baby-Hands Barney. A nickname inspired by my father when he remarked how soft Lord Thomas’s hands were after the first time they met. If there was one sure-fire way to lose my father’s respect, it was men whose hands weren’t callused from hard, honorable work.

“You may want to let go, lest you get pricked,” Lord Thomas said. His nervous laughter continued. Was he really more concerned with diffusing McCabe’s anger than defending me?

“I can speak for myself, lord.” I looked McCabe in the eyes and said calmly, “Take your hands off me. And if you ever lay a hand on me again, you will regret it.”

McCabe huffed before releasing his grip and stomping away like a spoiled child who was slapped on the wrist.

“I am leaving, and I am taking the carriage,” I said to Lord Thomas, who was still muttering something about roses and thorns. “Perhaps you can catch a ride home with your new friend.” I turned and left, leaving him standing there stunned by the first rejection he’d probably ever received.

I silently seethed while waiting for the carriage to be brought around. Part of me wanted to storm back in and yell at the lord for discrediting my capabilities, not defending me, and then, after all that, having the gall to try to speak for me when McCabe grabbed me. He created the problem and then wanted to solve it? No, thank you. I can fight my own fights.

The carriage arrived and I opened the door and climbed in before the coachman could even get up from the reins. I was eager to get away from this idiotic ball filled with idiotic men.

The ride home was quiet without Lord Thomas chattering incessantly like a crow. Listening to the cicadas and the sound of trotting hooves calmed me down. There was always something about the nighttime symphony that I found comforting and soothing, no matter how riled up I was.

My father wasn’t an angry man, but on the infrequent occasions when something got under his skin, he really lit up. There was no doubt I got my temper from him. You could stab my mother and she’d still probably smile while offering you a biscuit.

I had the coach drop me off at the start of our property. With the recent rain, the uphill road to our house turned into a muddy slope, impossible for carriage wheels to get traction.

As I approached the house, I spotted my parents sitting on the porch, as they did most nights, a whiskey in hand. My mother always stayed in her elegant day dresses until she was turning in for the night. Never slipping on a night robe to read by the fire or a more comfortable homespun for dinner with just me and my father. In fact, I never saw her out of her bedroom in her night robe. My father on the other hand, grew up a cotter’s son in Scotland and couldn’t stand to stay in his respectable stiff jacket and wig longer than absolutely necessary. Dressed in only his breeches and stockings, long shirt untucked and wig off, he looked like a farmhand stealing sweet moments with the mistress of the house.

I heard my name in conversation and paused unseen under the cover of an oak tree to listen.

“Business is no place for a woman of her age. You’re only getting her hopes up, John.” It was a sentiment my mother voiced often. I rolled my eyes in the dark and felt a familiar feeling of frustration build in my chest.

“She’s good at it, Beatrice.” My cheeks flushed at my father’s praise. “She’s canny and has a good head for numbers. If she was a son, rather than a daughter, her place at the head of the company would never be in doubt. I don’t see what difference her wearing a dress rather than breeks makes.”

“Oh please, John, it’s not about how she dresses.”

“So, ye’re saying yer mind wouldn’t be altered if she replaced her lace skirts for tweed trousers?”

“Stop that.” I could hear my mother laugh, despite her strong feelings on the matter. “You know as well as I do that just because we see the strong, witty woman she is, doesn’t mean others will too.”

I could sense my father’s sigh, knowing her words were true. Oh, how I wanted him to tell her she was wrong, that I was the perfect fit.

“But if she had a husband,” she continued, “he could be the face of the business dealings and she could still be intimately involved behind closed doors.”

“And what do ye propose we do about that? Purchase an advertisement with the printer? Seeking husband to run family business but only publicly, wife will run all other dealings privately.”

“No. We simply stop allowing her to pursue this foolish fantasy.”

Foolish fantasy? What was foolish was wasting my life only hosting tea parties and changing clouts! I had heard enough, I stepped out from under the oak tree. My parents’ conversation halted as soon as they saw me.

Why did I have to give up on my dreams just to become someone’s wife? Just to be pushed to the sidelines and cast in the shadow of a husband. It’s not like I wanted to run away and join the circus. I wanted to contribute to our family business, continue to grow the Sinclair legacy.

“You’re home early,” my mother said as I climbed the porch steps. “How was the ball?”

“A real-life fairytale.” I groaned before kissing them both on the cheek and wishing them a goodnight. The evening ended much sooner than expected, but I was still exhausted and headed straight to bed.

I paused before walking inside. “Meet you at the warehouse tomorrow?”

“O’course, my girl,” said my father. At least I had that to look forward to.