sorry she is gone,” Bartholomew said. He didn’t remember his own mother. He had never known his father. His surname had come from the man in Liverpool who had taken him in, and taught him the sea, out of kindness. He had died the first year that Bartholomew had been with the British Navy.
Before either could say more, the front door opened and closed. Victor Wyeth, Victoria’s father, had come home.
“Victoria!” he called.
“In here, Father! Captain Miller and I are having tea,” Victoria returned.
Victor Wyeth, a large, robust man, strode into the room. His gaze instantly fell upon Bartholomew. That gaze created a chill that raced along his spine.
But Wyeth was polite. “Why, Captain, what a surprise,” he said, shaking hands as Bartholomew stood to greet him.
“I was struggling with a large parcel and Captain Miller came to my rescue,” Victoria said.
“That was most kind,” Wyeth said. “Whatever charge you might like to make upon me will be most gratefully paid.”
“Sir, it was a pleasure to help,” Bartholomew said.
“Father! He does not wish to be paid. He is a friend, and friends help friends,” she said.
“Of course,” Wyeth said. He looked at his watch. “But tea time is over, and I have pressing business with which I will need your assistance, Victoria.”
“Father, honestly—” Victoria began.
Bartholomew did not take his seat again. “I must be going,” he told Victoria. He smiled, telling her he understood.
And in his eyes, and in his touch as he delicately kissed her fingers in farewell, he was certain that she knew he would wait for her, a lifetime, if need be.
“I shall see you out,” Wyeth told him.
“Thank you, sir,” Bartholomew said.
The pretense ended when Victor Wyeth led Bartholomew outside. “Sir, you will not come near my daughter again, do you understand? She is a lady, and far above the reach of a pirate such as yourself.”
“I am not a pirate, Mr. Wyeth,” Bartholomew said.
Wyeth waved a hand in the air. “I know your past. You will stay away from my daughter.”
Bartholomew meant to do all the right things, but he couldn’t accept such a statement. “What if your daughter is not of the same mind?” he demanded.
“My daughter will do as I say. And I am best of friends with Commodore Porter—I can see to it that you regret any trouble you cause me,” Wyeth said.
Bartholomew stared at him. “I don’t bow down to threats, Mr. Wyeth. If Victoria tells me to stay away, then that is what I will do. Good day, sir.”
He turned and left before they could get into a screaming match, or, God forbid, a brawl. He walked down the street with his head high, his stride long and strong.
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