Angels, Sinners and Madmen Read online

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  Cate Masters on Kindle

  Angels, Sinners and Madmen

  Copyright © 2012 by Cate Masters

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  To Gary, for enduring the beast, angel and madman in me.

  "I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me,

  and my enquiry is as to their working,

  and my problem is their subjugation and victory, downthrow and upheaval,

  and my effort is their self-expression."

  - Dylan Thomas

  Chapter One

  The Elizabeth Rose sliced through the waves of the Atlantic, creating a diamond-bright spray of shimmering gold in the morning sun’s rays, bright beneath dark clouds. A fleeting treasure to behold.

  To Livvie Collins, standing at the helm, all of life seemed to be. So fleeting, she intended to experience it to the fullest.

  In the seas ahead, hundreds of silver fish dotted the waters. They parted for the ship, some leaping from the sea. Some skimmed along the surface, their translucent fins extended like wings. A few bumped into the ship’s sides. Others rose higher and glided in the air.

  One floated alongside the deck rail and landed at her feet. “Oh, poor fellow.” She bent for a closer inspection. Another fish, and then another, thudded on board around her.

  “Miss!” someone called.

  She met Peter’s friendly gaze, his grip steady on her elbow. He guided her to the side, dozens of fish raining around them.

  “Get down.” He crouched, tugged her to the side and held the rail to shield her. His lean frame belied its sinew. His ease of movement showed his strength, a grace she’d noticed watching him scale the mast to the lookout tower, or helping haul up the sails.

  She focused on the strange sight beyond him and tried to ignore his musky scent, the result of hard labor and no bath facilities. Father would have frowned upon her for allowing such intimacy with someone she hardly knew.

  Father was gone now. She alone steered the rudder of her destiny–until she reached Wendell’s house, at least. Her brother would no doubt attempt to assert his opinion above her own. When the ship made port at New Orleans, he would find her unwilling to relinquish her freedom.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  Peter angled toward her. Up close, his dark eyes shone even more warmly. “Flying fish. Harmless enough, unless you step in their path.”

  “Flying fish! How incredible.” She craned to see past him, delighting in the winged creatures. So beautiful, she hoped to capture every detail in her journal later.

  “They don’t really fly,” he said. “See how they spread their fins to catch the wind, much the same as our ship’s sails.”

  The number of wayward fish had dwindled to an occasional flop onto the ship.

  Peter eased to a stand and peered over the rail. “It’s safe now.” He stepped back and extended his hand toward her.

  Rising, she slid her palm across his, its coarseness pricking her senses to life. “They aren’t very good navigators.”

  A smile lit his face. “Cook loves them. The crew, too—it’s less work for us when the food supply presents itself.”

  “And without any argument. Oh, who could eat such a magical creature?” Akin to something out of a fairy tale, the way they’d appeared in the air. She couldn’t wait to see her brother’s face when she told him. He, of course, would tell her to stop dreaming. A favorite admonishment before he moved south.

  “Magic or not, they’re delicious.” Peter gently squeezed her hand.

  At home, Livvie might have blushed at such boldness and released him before her father’s quick eye could glower in warning. Here, there was no one to see, and she would not take offense at an innocent gesture.

  Good-natured banter filled the air as several of the crew scooped fish up in their arms, carrying them to a barrel.

  A familiar high-pitched voice called, “Olivia, are you all right? I heard a terrible noise.”

  She withdrew from Peter’s grasp to face the stern figure of Martha Locke, crow-like in her widow’s dress. “I’m fine, Mrs. Locke. The noise was only dinner, delivering itself to ship’s cook.”

  Ducking his head, Peter grinned at her.

  Mrs. Locke gripped the rail, picking her way toward them, daintily stepping over the wriggling fish. She clutched the side and fanned herself with her handkerchief. “You shouldn’t stand so close to the edge. You could have toppled overboard.”

  “Peter saw to my safety.” She curtsied in jest. “Thank you, kind sir.” Her gratitude extended beyond her safety. She would cherish the memory of his gallantry.

  He bowed. “My pleasure, milady.”

  Mrs. Locke’s wide eyes narrowed, no doubt owing to his enthusiastic tone.

  Peter bent to retrieve a flopping fish and walked backward, his gaze locked on hers.

  She reached out. “Careful, Peter.”

  Slipping on a fish, he landed on his derriere, legs splayed.

  A mate looked from him to Livvie and guffawed. “Aye, careful, lad. Ye’ll get yourself in a slippery mess.”

  Livvie understood the double entendre all too well, yet no embarrassment tainted her good mood. Peter was a friend, nothing more. Once they landed, he’d sail off, and she’d travel to New Orleans. Until then, he provided interesting company, and she was sure he felt the same.

  He caught the fish again and carried it to the barrel.

  She hid her smile behind her hand. Her spirit hadn’t felt so light in a year, since before her father had grown ill.

  Mrs. Locke clutched her arm. “See, I told you it’s not safe. Come below, where you will be secure.”

  The rocking of the boat beneath Livvie’s feet didn’t frighten her. The sensation was not dissimilar to riding her horse, which she loved to do with abandon. Although much larger than her beautiful gelding, the surge of the ship’s rise and fall reminded her of the steady canter of her beloved Swedish Warmblood.

  Mustering what she hoped was a reassuring pleasantness, she turned to Mrs. Locke. “It’s unbearably dark below. I much prefer the open view from here.”

  Peering out across the bow, Mrs. Locke muttered, “I feel faint.” Her eyes fluttered, and she swooned with a low moan.

  Livvie linked arms with her. “Hold tight to me. I’ll take you below.”

  The widow shuffled across the deck as though her feet were encased in leaden boots. “The rocking of the waves, the howling wind; it terrifies me, all of it. I fear we will be lost to the sea.” Her grip on Livvie’s arm tightened enough to leave a mark.

  Livvie pried Mrs. Locke’s fingers loose and patted them. “Nonsense. We’ll make port soon. Until then, you must keep your mind occupied. Worrying is useless.”

  “All I have left is worry in my life,” the older woman moaned. “My happiness is past. My beloved Andrew is gone. I will only be a burden to my poor son.” Her voice broke, and she held her handkerchief to her mouth.

  Livvie adopted a tone her father used. “I’m sure that’s not true, Mrs. Locke. You have many happy, useful days ahead. Engage yourself in worthwhile pursuits, and happiness will return.” Those words rang emp
ty to her now.

  Mrs. Locke sighed. “You are too young to understand my dire situation.”

  She steered the woman down the steep steps, toward her bedding. No use telling the old biddy she herself was in no better a position. All she loved, she had left behind. Her brother and his wife were opening their home to her, yet Livvie suspected their expectation was for her to marry—and soon—to relieve them of her presence.

  To calm Mrs. Locke, Livvie sat beside her, though she soon grew uneasy. The gloom of the lower hold infected her, its still, dank air suffocating her. No wonder the widow was half-mad with worry, always retreating to this dim haven. The closed-in hold assaulted Livvie’s senses and quashed her hopes. “Where is your book? I shall read to you.”

  Her hands shaking, Mrs. Locke handed her the Nathaniel Hawthorne novel, The House of Seven Gables.

  Livvie opened to the page bookmarked by an embroidered strip of fabric and read aloud. The cadence of the words soon lulled Mrs. Locke, her breaths softening to flutters.

  The words enflamed Livvie’s senses and fueled her desire to capture a reader within her own stories. In New York, she’d penned two novels, praised well enough by her best friend, though on reflection, she’d realized her writing lacked the most necessary aspect—experience. Embarking on this journey opened up a new world, a world she fervently desired to explore—without the binding oversight of a man. Unless, of course, the man happened to be an editor providing guidance with her stories. Before making sail, Livvie had carefully wrapped her latest novel, pressing a kiss to its pages before sealing the package. It should have reached Kenneth Randall by now, a renowned publisher. Hopefully soon, her publisher.

  * * * *

  A dim light cast a grey pall throughout the hold. Morning must have dawned, though Livvie had no idea what the hour might be. She arose quietly so as not to disturb Mrs. Locke, whose tiny snores sounded akin to a piglet’s.

  Livvie walked to the helm to lean against the rail, letting the wind riffle through her hair. It exhilarated her to stand there, the open vista of the world spread before her, but today, the wide skies loomed heavy, and their dark clouds reached into the ocean as if to cut off the ship’s path. Aroused by the sharp winds, the seas frothed, offering not even a porpoise to entertain her in leaping from the water in playful bounds.

  One new bit of scenery had appeared overnight. Land.

  For a long while, she stood there, weighing the good points versus the bad. Land meant release from the ship, but to what? Had the publisher received her novel? Adored it? Abhorred it? Oh, if only mail could reach ships at sea.

  Soft huffs signaled Mrs. Locke’s inevitable approach. “Do come away from there, Olivia. The ship rocks like a cradle this morn.”

  “I will in a bit.” Did the woman think Livvie under her charge? She longed to escape Mrs. Locke’s clinging embrace. If only the widow would attach herself to someone else. Unfortunately, the other two dozen passengers consisted of couples and families. Aside from Mrs. Locke, Livvie represented the only other single female aboard.

  Releasing a long sigh, Mrs. Locke cast her gaze heavenward. “Yesterday’s glorious sunlight struck the deck prism and illuminated below enough to read. This poor light makes it impossible to sew this morning. I would love to have your pleasant company to help pass the time.”

  Livvie’s sympathetic ear had already drawn out Martha Locke’s life story. She couldn’t imagine what was left to tell. Mrs. Locke had lost her husband when his carriage overturned and his neck snapped, killing him instantly. Forced to leave her Boston home, the woman was headed for St. Louis to live with her son. Her constant frights had grown tedious. The widow startled at every creak of timber or snap of sail cloth.

  Once again, Livvie found herself in the role of comforter and caretaker, a less difficult role to assume when she imagined the woman to be her own mother, lost ten years earlier to pneumonia. Until her father’s death, Livvie had been his caretaker as well.

  Mrs. Locke’s fears of sailing hadn’t tainted Livvie’s love of it. In New York, her father had taken her sailing on his schooner since she was old enough to walk. For both women, this trip proved their first time on a tall ship. The glorious billowing sails overhead filled Livvie with an indefinable yearning.

  On the deck above, Captain Richard Pierce stood and pointed a brass telescope to the horizon.

  “I would like to speak to the captain. I shall come below afterward, I promise.”

  Her smile feeble, Mrs. Locke turned in a wobble and made her way to the descending steps.

  Livvie crossed the main deck and climbed the steps. “Ahoy, Captain Pierce. Where are we now?”

  The captain collapsed his looking glass. “Mornin’, Miss Collins. According to my calculations, we are off the coast of southern Florida.”

  “I see.” Her voice fell as flat as her hopes.

  “You’re not eager to land ashore?” The captain’s amusement showed plainly in his arched brows and suppressed smile.

  She drew herself tall. “I prefer sailing—the wind in my hair, the absolute freedom of the wide ocean.”

  He shook his head, chuckling. “You’re the first woman to say so.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, as much to appear steadfast as to steady herself against the increasing winds. “Perhaps I should captain my own boat.” What an adventure story that would make!

  Her remark drew a hearty laugh from the captain. “Aye, I’ll retire so you can captain the Elizabeth Rose.”

  “Why name ships after women, Captain?” In her limited experience, men proved fickle, but she couldn’t imagine competing against the grace and beauty of a tall ship.

  “Not all are.” Captain Pierce leaned against the rail. “I imagine it’s because, for us sailors, our lives are bound to the ship, much the same as other men are bound to their wives. It’s a means of comforting ourselves, I suppose. You’ll forget the ship when you get to New Orleans.”

  Not likely. Her writing would ensure that. “I suppose I should go below and see how Mrs. Locke is faring. Thank you, Captain.”

  “Aye, best you stay below awhile.” The teasing had left his voice.

  She paused at the stair. “Why?”

  He set his mouth in a grim line. “There’s a storm ahead. The seas may soon be rough.”

  In the few minutes they’d been speaking, dark, roiling clouds had blackened the skies.

  “Oh, dear.” She would be holding the pail for Mrs. Locke, whose feeble stomach did not abide rocky waters. She took her leave of the captain, descending the steep steps to stroll below. The stench of sweat and sickness stung her nostrils, more depressing than the dank atmosphere.

  Even in the dim light, Mrs. Locke’s sallow skin and sunken eyes warned of impending illness. She held her shawl tight, her gaze fixed on the glass prism hanging from the ceiling as if she could will it to disperse more light.

  Sitting beside her, Livvie placed her hand atop the older woman’s trembling shoulder. “Tell me more about your son.”

  A wan smile crossed her face. “Thomas is strong and kind. His blacksmithing business keeps him very busy. If only he could have met you before marrying.” She patted Livvie’s hand. “You are exactly the kind of girl I hoped to have as a daughter-in-law.”

  Pity the poor wife of Thomas, having to meet the widow’s strict standards.

  The ship seesawed upward, then sharply down. Livvie captured their belongings before they slid away, and piled them in her lap and in Mrs. Locke’s, who teetered back and forth.

  She attempted a brave front. “Don’t fret. The Elizabeth Rose will carry us safely to our destination.”

  Whimpering, Mrs. Locke nodded. In the shadows, the others huddled in tight groups.

  “Do Thomas and his wife have any children?” If Livvie could engage the woman in a subject dear to her heart, perhaps they could weather the storm without sickness.

  “One—a little girl.” The woman squealed as the ship rocked. Akin to the flying fis
h, it rose beneath them. Upon its return to the sea, the deafening crash resounded through the hold.

  Livvie held her tighter. Mrs. Locke’s fear began to infect her. “What’s her name?”

  The stern reared upward, faltering in its descent.

  Mrs. Locke opened her mouth to reply, but halted. A loud, eerie groan echoed through the ship like a woman’s sad cry of desperation. The Elizabeth Rose shifted sideways in a disorienting whoosh, too quickly to have been caused by the rudder. The ship must have caught on something—what could it have struck at this distance from shore?

  A loud crack traveled along the ship’s sides. Near the helm, wood splintered, and water bled through its wound in a spray. Mrs. Locke’s scream mingled with others. People scattered.

  Livvie took hold of her arm and tugged her upright. “We must get up top. Now.”

  The older woman rooted her feet in place, stiffened by panic. Livvie pulled hard. Short bursts of screaming interrupted Mrs. Locke’s constant moans. The wood continued to collapse inward, and the stream of invading water became a waterfall.

  Livvie dragged her toward the stairs. “Climb to the top. Quickly.” She set the woman’s hands on the rail. Mrs. Locke stared in horror at the advancing water swirling across the hold’s floor. A man shoved ahead of her and helped another woman up.

  “Martha, we must go now.” Livvie couldn’t leave her below, it would mean certain death. At least up top, they had a fighting chance. To rouse her from the grip of terror, she slapped the woman’s cheek. “Climb up, now!”

  Nodding, Mrs. Locke took hold of the rail and set one foot on the step. Livvie followed close. The woman’s shaking limbs were too slow for those behind, who yelled in anger and fear for them to move faster. The cluster grew.

  Despite prodding, the widow resisted all urgings to hurry.

  Livvie glanced back. “She’s going as fast as she can.”

  Mrs. Locke screeched when the ship tilted crazily up, and then drifted down. Her steps became increasingly more halting. Nearing the top deck, water surged across deck and down the stairs, drenching their clothing.