He made his way upstairs toward Mr. Watkins' office and saw the draftsman hard at work at his table. Beyond him, the accountant sat in his office behind a desk, his head bent over several open ledger books. Lucky greeted the men with a hello and before they could reply, even above the din of the rain on the roof, he heard Mrs. Watkins shouting. "Get off the property. Both of you. You're fired!"
The glass pane on the office door rattled when she yanked it open. "And if you try to help yourselves to Mr. Watkins' property again, we will turn you in to the constable."
Two men stood in the office with her, wearing expressions that were resentful and ashamed, both at once. They were taller than Mrs. Watkins but shorter than Lucky, about his same age, he figured. One slightly taller than the other, they looked to be brothers, both dressed in work trousers and rough cotton shirts. Mrs. Watkins displayed the bit of temper he'd discovered inherent in most redheads. Both men turned to leave and glanced at him before heading for the hallway.
"Mr. Temple," Mrs. Watkins called to the accountant, "could you give these men their final pay, please?"
Lucky thought she was beautiful when she got her temper up. Her cheeks blazed in a near perfect match to her auburn hair, which seemed to turn her eyes the darker brown he'd only seen once before, in the hallway yesterday. Lord knew she was angry enough at him then.
Andrew Nawton and another employee entered the antechamber to support their employer if she needed it. After Robert Temple handed each man a sealed packet, Mrs. Watkins followed the two former workers down the hall and steps, escorting them out of the building. Lucky trailed behind her, reluctant to interfere with the running of her business. Her and her husband's business. Lucky's presence might not be required, but he didn't care. He would back her up as well, and protect her if necessary. Once the two terminated men left the building, going into the rain, she leaned back against the closed door, visibly shaken.
Lucky wanted to touch her—her hand, her elbow, anything—just to offer support. "Anything I can do to help? Perhaps get you a glass of water?"
"No, thank you, I already have one." Mrs. Watkins pushed off the door and climbed the steps, returning to her husband's office where she propped the door open with a chair back. The quick burst of rain had let up and she opened the window the rest of the way to allow for more breeze to enter the room.
She appeared tired and fragile and it made him want to protect her. If she was his, he would. She wouldn't be working at all. Much less surrounded by the type of rough men who could so easily hurt her. Or worse. "May I ask what they did or said to make you so angry?"
"I'm sorry you had to see that. We knew we had a thief somewhere in the finish crew, but I didn't expect the two of them. Mr. Watkins will be disappointed. Their father worked here for many years before his death." She shook off the emotional moment and returned to her strictly-business persona. Lucky was sorry to see that wall of hers go back up. "We received the brass handles and knobs for the furnishings of the Ajax. I saw them in the box on the floor with my own eyes. The box came up missing the day after I saw it when Malcolm went to install them.
"These were special to the Ajax, custom-made in Philadelphia with the shipping company's insignia stamped into the brass. That's an expensive reverse-molding process."
"How do you know they were the ones who stole them?"
"They tried to use them to pay their tab at Cormack O'Meara's tavern." He watched her shake her head in dismay, and seeing her frustration with the situation she had with men she'd employed. "I saw Cormack on my walk to work this morning and he asked me if I've been missing some brass. I told him aye, but I thought they must've been misplaced. He led me to his bar and he showed me what he'd just taken off those two buffoons last night.
"It was my own brass." She shook her head, looking dumbfounded. "What hurts most is that they would steal from us. There has been a Slocum working here from day one."
Lucky unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, the heat getting to him already. "Do you mind?" When she shook her head, he began to roll them up. "Ian told me about your summers here. It is certainly living up to its reputation." He finished one sleeve then started on the other. After the scene he'd just witnessed he thought it might be more than just the weather getting to him. He'd decided yesterday that seeing Mary Watkins in a high temper was more than a little arousing.
"Are you ready... to um... to work on the last list?" Her voice shook as she reached for her glass of water. It trembled in her hand as she clutched it and brought it to her mouth for a sip. He wondered if she was having a delayed reaction to the stressful scene with the thieves.
"You are obviously worked up over what just happened. Take a few minutes to catch your breath." He poured a glass for himself, and sat across from her. "I am in no hurry."
"I'll be fine." She managed a half-hearted smile. "It's just the stress of having to do something unpleasant." As she shuffled through the papers on her desk, Lucky heard her say, "It's times like this that I think I would rather just design. And leave the running of the business to...."
"So hand over the
management
of the shipyard to a
manager
. A man. Let men handle firing men. You shouldn't have to do it if you don't want to."
"I can't. I feel... responsible for... all of it." Mrs. Watkins' gaze again went to the open doorway. "My husband has trained me, and is still teaching me to this day how to run this business. Firing men is part of the job."
"All I'm saying is that
you
don't have to do everything. Delegate. Hire more men."
"I shall take your comments under advisement, and consult with Mr. Watkins." Lifting her sharpened pencil, she asked, "Are you ready to finish our work here, Captain?"
As they worked on completing the last appointments list, he realized he'd made a mistake. He was wrong about her, and about walking away with no attachments. Something in his soul knew a short sordid tumble or two with this woman was wrong. He knew it when their gazes would meet and he could see a spark of permanence. Almost as though her eyes were a window into the future. The longer he remained in this woman's presence, working together as closely as they were—side-by-side, the light floral scent of her enveloping him—the more her spell wrapped around his brain and heart until the only thing he could think of was her. Cherishing her. Protecting her. Loving her.
Her. This woman, Mary-Michael. Not Spenser Watkins' wife, but Mary, the woman who intrigued him and attracted him like the proverbial moth to the flame. At that moment, he realized an affair would cheapen the woman she'd become, and that one day she would be his. But he'd have to wait.
Lucky watched her as the morning wore on, her head bent over her desk while she worked. Her knotted hair loosened, a strand falling across her face and his heart lurched. It was yet another outward sign of her vulnerability. A slight breeze carried the humid salty tang of ocean into the room and that, mixed with the smell of tar and salted timbers reminded him that she was, by her own choosing, working in a man's world. She was not safe from harm here, not as she would be if she kept to the traditional woman's role of caring for hearth and home. She worked in this enormous building with who knew how many men, and she had no fear at all of them. Which was far preferable to her cringing in fear at every moment. He didn't want that for her either.
At home, women of his station never left the house without a footman for protection, even to spend the afternoon shopping. This must be an example of what Ian meant when he said that Americans were a fiercely independent lot. It was an admirable trait in the men from this country he'd met thus far, though he couldn't say the same for the women, as Mrs. Watkins was the only one he'd met thus far. And the more he learned about her, the more he realized she needed someone to take some of the workload off her shoulders.
"Captain Gualtiero?" Mrs. Watkins' voice broke through his musings.
"Yes?" he replied, embarrassed at being caught daydreaming.
"I asked if there was anything that you might have forgotten. Are we ready to sign off on this final order?"
He took the pages she offered for his perusal and gave them a quick once over. "Yes, I believe we are."
She was beautiful, in a pure, fresh, unadulterated sense. There was no pretense in her, the kind instilled by conforming to societal rules. Having worked closely with her these past three days to start this construction process, he believed she could easily handle every aspect of running this business. And the incident that morning with the thieves reminded them both that she was still a lady. A lady who would one day soon become a widow and would have to do what all widows do, redefine her life and find a new passion to devote herself to.
Lucky wanted to be that passion.
"Good." Mrs. Watkins smiled at him as she tapped the pages against the table to them into order. "I shall send Victor to get Mr. Watkins and our attorney."
Lucky nodded. "While we wait, care to walk into the village for luncheon?" He didn't think she would, but she agreed. "Good. I found a place the other night that has sliced meats over a thick chunk of bread with cheese and vegetables on top. It was rather delicious and quite filling. The woman who served me said they were also open for luncheon."
She smiled at him. "I see you found my friend Becky's place. Let's go now. I'm famished, and she's soon to get very busy."
After lunch, they returned to the office and found Mr. Watkins and another man, Mr. Frank Baxter, their firm's legal counsel, already waiting inside the office. Lucky greeted both men, and smiled when he realized that this part of the process was finally at an end.
"Mrs. Watkins," said the woman's husband, "I hope you two had a delicious lunch. Was Becky busy today?"
"Yes sir," Mrs. Watkins replied, "as she usually is." She turned to the attorney and greeted him, then stepped around the desk to place a kiss atop her husband's gray-haired head. Lucky felt no jealousy at all. In fact, suspecting what he did—even though he'd had no confirmation—it rather made sense. She treated him as a father more than she did a husband.
Mrs. Watkins unrolled the drawing that rested on the edge of her desk and showed the completed plan to her husband. The man's face beamed with pride and his rheumy eyes shone with unshed tears. "Mr. Watkins," his wife said, "may I present the
Lady S
and the
Lady M
. Identical sister clippers of the Empire Tea Importers."
"My dear, she is beautiful. Perfect, even, in her symmetry and balance," Watkins said. "She doesn't appear under-sparred at all, as the sail plan and deck arrangements hide any disproportion you feared."
"Thank you, sir." She beamed as she glanced up at Lucky.
The attorney, Baxter, looked at the drawing as well and declared it a very fine vessel, indeed.
Watkins asked Baxter to produce the contracts and within thirty minutes, Lucky and, by his proxy, Ian were the proud future owners of two Baltimore clippers made of the finest of materials by the most experienced craftsmen the eastern seaboard could produce. Discussion touched on the topic of delivery dates and Lucky was surprised to learn that both ships would be completed in less than one year's time.
"This yard is capable of so much more than you see currently underway," Watkins said. "A decade ago, we had six to eight new builds ongoing at any time, as well as the dry dock operation for repairs. At our peak, we employed over six hundred craftsmen, not to mention the numerous subcontractors like the sail makers." He looked at his young wife, then back at Lucky. "When I realized that, despite my fondest hopes and wishes, I was getting no younger—" Baxter and Mrs. Watkins chuckled at Watkins' quip, —"I had to plan for a future without me in it. So I began to scale back the new construction, leaving the dry dock yard in full production." The old man smiled at his wife. "I am now certain that I will be leaving the shipyard in good hands. As Mrs. Watkins grows more confident in her ability to manage, she can always expand again."
Watkins sounded like a man who wanted to make the transition of the shipyard from his management to his wife's as smooth as possible for her. It amazed Lucky that the man didn't think the enormity of the business to be too much for his wife.
Baxter rose and said his goodbyes, saying he had an appointment later that afternoon.
"Captain," Mrs. Watkins said when the man was gone, "dinner shall be at six, and I am requesting there be no talk of business at all."
She helped her husband up and handed him his cane, then turned to Lucky and smiled a full, two-dimpled smile. And he thought it the most beautiful sight ever. "Tonight is about our family honoring the company of a new friend."
"I am honored," was all he said as he followed the two out of the building. Curious about Mrs. Watkins' future plans, he looked forward to what the evening ahead would reveal to him.
C
hapter
F
ive
A
fter Mary-Michael arrived at the house with Mr. Watkins, her husband asked her to join him in his study. When she crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind her. She didn't have to wonder what he would ask. He wanted to know if she'd made a decision, and she wouldn't lie to him. In fact, she wanted him to know because—if she was fortunate enough to conceive—she would need his help.
Mr. Watkins gave her a somber grin as he passed her on the way to his favorite corner chair in front of the open window. "Well, Mrs. Watkins, the captain appears to be smitten with you."
She went to the side table and poured them each a glass of water, gulping half of her glass before filling it again. She needed it to cool her heated body from within. Forcing her hands not to tremble as she handed her husband his glass, she couldn't meet his gaze for surely he'd catch her blushing. He would notice and think she was afraid when she wasn't. Oh no, she felt exactly the opposite. In fact, her entire being thrummed with quiet excitement, and maybe a bit of anxiety. But she wasn't fearful of the captain, nor the situation. She just didn't know how to proceed with the planning of a seduction. "No, sir. He is not smitten. In fact, he called me a frustrating female."