A Pirate of her Own (2 page)

“Well? What do you think?”

Douglas Adams smiled at the hopeful enthusiasm on Serenity James’s face. She looked much as she had the very first time he’d met her almost twenty years ago. Only, then she’d been covered in dirt, her dress and stockings torn, while she clutched a shiny apple to her tiny five-year-old chest. An apple she’d climbed high into a tree to claim.

Though her face no longer bore the childhood cherub quality he’d first grown to love, it still held that sparkling romanticism that had prompted her to climb the tree and proclaim herself Helen of Troy clutching the Golden Apple of Venus.

“I think it’s your best story yet,” he said at last, deciding he had kept her long enough in suspense.

His reward was an even brighter smile, one that lit her face and made her eyes glow like indigo fire.

Though far from a stunning beauty, Serenity held her own special quality that set her apart from the other women her age. Even a married man of Douglas’s advanced years couldn’t quite deny her unique charms or appeal.

Serenity leaned over his desk and looked upside down at the sheets of paper he held. “You don’t think the ending is overly dramatic, do you?” She looked up to meet his gaze. “I tried not to make it too dramatic. But you know how I can get sometimes when I—”

“Nay, I don’t think so,” he said with a smile, cutting her off.

That was one thing about Serenity—any time she became nervous or excited she tended to babble off whatever was on her mind. If one didn’t take charge, then one could become blindsided by her chatter. “I think the idea of a far-reaching conspiracy was quite clever.”

Her delight over his praise died and she pulled her spectacles from the bridge of her nose. In her familiar nervous habit, she toyed with the left ear-piece of the spectacles and drew her brows together into a deep frown. “Do you think Father will like it?”

An ache seized Douglas’s heart. How she longed to please her irreconcilable father, but after working for the man these last twenty years, Douglas had come to the realization that nothing would ever please Benjamin James. “I can’t see why he’d
refuse
to publish it.”

She smiled halfheartedly. All too well, she knew why her father might refuse the story, why he continued to refuse his daughter.

“How I wish I’d been born a man,” she said with the same longing Douglas had heard countless times. “Then I could report real news like you, Father, and Jonathan. I could go down to the docks and interview witnesses, go into taverns and…” She shook her head, sighed, and pushed herself away from his desk. “I know you’re tired of hearing me say that.”

She left his side to walk toward her mahogany desk, the top of which was piled high with the manuscripts she dutifully edited for them. The hem of her plain, practical black dress rustled slightly with her steps as she paced their tiny work area.

She stopped and looked wistfully out the large bay windows, down the busy street that was filled with sailors, fishmongers, filthy children, and businessmen rushing to and from the docks.

How she yearned for things they both knew she could never do. If it were within his power, Douglas thought, he would gladly give her the autonomy she craved.

Unfortunately, all he could offer her was a sympathetic ear, and some encouragement.

“Don’t give up hope, Miss Serenity,” he offered, hoping to cheer her. “One day adventure will come bounding through that very door and you’ll—”

“Run for cover,” she said with a sigh.

Turning to face him, Serenity replaced her spectacles and squared her shoulders into the no-nonsense stance that she wore like a protective mantle.

“We both know what a milch cow I am,” she said. “I shall never be a bold woman who flouts societal rules like my idol, Lady Mary. I’m afraid I’m far too practical for that.”

Crossing the room, Serenity took the pages from his hands and flipped through them. “But at least I can pretend.”

The door to their small printing shop opened, ushering in a crisp autumn breeze that rustled pages of the journals lining the tops of tables set around the room.

Douglas straightened in his chair as his employer, Benjamin James, came into the office, wearing the stern frown that had etched permanent lines in his weathered features. “Good afternoon, sir,” Douglas said quietly.

Benjamin responded with a cool
harrumph
.

“How did it go, Father?” Serenity asked.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything,” he snapped. “I’ll send Jonathan down there later today. Mayhap your brother can get them to open up. Great Caesar knows, he seems to do better than me most of the time, wastrel mix-nut that he is.” His cold blue eyes focused on the pages in her hands, and he lifted one white bushy brow that made his scowl appear even more ominous.

Douglas sank lower in his chair, wishing he could vanish into the very floor, while Serenity met her father’s stare unflinchingly. Douglas had never understood Serenity’s immunity to her father’s black moods. If only he could learn her secret.

“What’s that?” Benjamin snapped. “Another one of your infernal stories?”

“Yes, I just finished it this—”

“I don’t know why you bother,” he grumbled, taking the pages from her and crinkling them.

Douglas clenched his teeth at the visible cringe in Serenity’s shoulders. How could her father treat her hard work so callously?

No, he corrected himself. It wasn’t so much all the work she put into her stories, it was her soul. Those were her dreams she wrote down. Dreams they both knew would never come true.

But he could never tell her that. She heard it enough from her splenetic father. Douglas would never be so cruel as to remind her that childhood dreams should be left behind along with dolls and frilly, smocked dresses.

Reality was just too harsh sometimes to face without them.

Shaking his head, Benjamin waved the pages under her nose. “Blasted waste of time for a girl your age. On the shelf, that’s what you are. You ought to have callers. I should have a grandson or two by now. But no, what do I get? One daughter who runs off in the middle of the night, another daughter who thinks she’s some sort of solicitor, and a son who can’t be trusted to tie his own stock.”

He ran his gaze over her, his eyes flaming with anger. “And if they aren’t enough to drive me mad, then what little sanity I have left is jeopardized by a daughter who thinks she’s Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward and implored her mother’s spirit with a litany Serenity had long ago memorized. “Why did you leave me with
them
, Abigail? She, like the rest of her wayward siblings, needs your gentling influence. Not mine.” He shook his head again and dropped his gaze back to his daughter. “Never would listen to me.”

His tirade finished, he made his way into the back of the shop to his desk, where he tossed her pages down upon the other pieces that littered his work space.

Serenity crossed her arms over her chest and offered Douglas an encouraging smile. Still, he noted the flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks.

“He’ll publish it, Miss Serenity,” Douglas offered again. And in an effort to restore their usual comradery, he added the same phrase that had become their own private jest. “And one day your adventure shall come.”

Her smile turned genuine, whimsical. She gave a light laugh that made him smile in return. “Just so long as it comes with wavy ebony hair, flashing eyes of danger, and dressed like a pirate.”

Douglas laughed, glad to see her father hadn’t dampened her spirit. “Aye, your pirate shall come on a rainy day like this, with the wind whipping his hair and his hat askew.”

Two days later, Serenity watched once more as the world walked by outside the windows of her father’s printing office.

“Twenty-four years old today,” she breathed to the dozing calico cat sitting in her lap as she reshuffled the pages she was proofreading. “And I’m no closer to being the writer I wanted to be than when I turned five.”

“Writer, bah!” her father’s impatient voice thundered across the office, making her jump.

Though they were alone in the office, she had been sure he was far enough away not to hear her musings. Too bad he had drifted closer while she’d been reading. She should have looked up before she spoke her thoughts aloud.

“You should be minding my grandchildren,” he continued to rail as he came to rest just before her desk. “That’s what would make you happy. Not sitting here doing men’s work!”

He lifted her right hand up to where she could see the ink stains that covered her fingertips and nails. “Look at that mess! Why, I should never have published any of your stories or even let you come near this office.” He dropped her hand and scowled. “All I’ve done is encourage you to be willful and stubborn!”

Serenity refused to cower before her father. Or let him get the last word about this personal matter that they both knew rubbed her raw. “If marriage be such a blessed state, how comes it there are so few happy marriages?”

Her father glared indignation at her and slammed his hand down on the mahogany desk. The loud thump echoed in the room, and several papers fluttered from the force of the gesture. Her cat, Pris, jerked her head up, looked at Benjamin James, then lay back in Serenity’s lap.

“Don’t you be quoting any of that social reform rhetoric to me, girl. Lady Mary—”

“’Tis Mary Astell, Father.”

“I don’t care if it’s the Virgin Mary, I’ll have no more of this disobedience from you. By God, I’ll find you a husband by the end of this week if it kills me.”

Serenity bit her lip to stifle the words that leapt into her mouth. He’d never find a husband for her. They both knew that. Even with the modest fortune her father had, he would be hard pressed to find a man who’d be willing to wed what the town biddies had dubbed that “poor James girl.”

The familiar voices of the town matrons filled her head.
That girl should have been given the stick years ago, before it was too late for her father to find her a suitable husband. What man would suffer through one of
her
lectures?

That poor James girl. Too old, too drab, and far too opinionated.

The type of man her father thought respectable would never agree to marriage with one such as she. No, those men sought younger brides. Girls with underdeveloped minds who were just waiting for a man to fill them with whatever nonsense
he
deemed suitable.

She was cut from a different mold.

Serenity sighed in sudden regret. Not at being different. Nay, she would never regret that, but what ached inside her was her inability to agree with her father’s wants and desires where she was concerned.

When had they become so different?

There had been a time once when she and her father had been close, inseparable. Atime when he had agreed with her about such matters as women taking on an important role in the emerging American utopia. Of women being well educated.

Her mother’s death had changed all that.

Still, he did support her writing in his own way. In spite of his complaints and harsh remarks, he did publish her stories, and those he refused often found their way into the
Dispatch
anyway. And though it irked him when she published a story behind his back, he had yet to banish her from the office for it.

Maybe it was foolish of her, but she liked to think that in some way he was proud of her and that was why he allowed her to continue working for him.

“Here,” he snapped, laying more papers on the desk before her. His brow drawn into a stern frown, he crossed the room to the coat tree to retrieve his hat and overcoat. “I need those edited by the end of the week.”

“Yes, Father,” she said quietly as she watched him shrug on his overcoat.

He gave her one last imperious scowl before reaching for the brass doorknob.

Rubbing her eyes beneath her spectacles, Serenity nudged her cat from her lap and sat forward.

“And get rid of that blasted stray!” he snapped an instant before he slammed the door shut behind him and braved the pouring rain.

Pris lifted her nose in the air and gave an indignant sniff as if she’d understood his order.

“It’s all right, girl,” Serenity said. “You know I’ll never get rid of you.” With a haughty flick of her tail, Pris headed off toward the back of the shop.

Suddenly the sharp scent of ink stung Serenity’s nostrils, distracting her from her father’s words.

Serenity froze. Surely she hadn’t smudged ink against her cheek or eye again. Not today of all days! Not with a party that very evening.

It had taken a month for the last smudge to wear off her skin. Mr. Jones, the baker, had thought it a black eye and had given her father dirty looks for weeks.

She laughed at the thought. Though gruff, her father would never hurt her. At least not physically, though there were times when his caustic remarks did sting as much as a blow.

If only she could find some way to prove herself to him. To prove to everyone that Serenity James was just as capable a writer as her brother.

“Oh, Pris,” she said to her cat. “What I wouldn’t give to have a great lead. To find the one story that would also rivet the entire country!”

She sighed in sudden defeat as she watched her cat sit in the corner and clean her right paw. “Who am I kidding?”

Wiping a towel soaked with turpentine against her cheek, Serenity swept a glance to the work surrounding her. “Dreary. My whole life is nothing but dreary drudgery. I can edit
men’s
articles, but no one trusts me to write them.”

She would probably live and die right here in this office, shuffling paper, reading exciting stories about exciting people, while the only excitement she could look forward to was a few fireworks on the docks during celebrations and holidays.

And if she were
really lucky
, she thought sarcastically, Charlie Simms might join her.

She shivered at the very thought of the gangly coopersmith who could never take a hint that she had no interest in him. He was nice enough, but he had the type of wandering hands that kept her hopping.