The Whaler's Treasure

Chapter Three, Scene 2

"What was she doing here," Rob asked, watching the boy and his sister walk away deep in conversation.

"Came to fetch the boy. She fears for him."

Rob turned to Matt, brow raised.

"His mother beats him," Matt said, and told him what he'd seen. "We could use a half deck boy and this one has bottom. I'd take him."

"What does his sister think about that?"

"She hates the thought of losing him. Can't blame her. I think they look after each other. It appears like no one else does."

Rob made no reply; he watched the girl disappear around a corner onto the main street. He forced his gaze away and turned to his brother only to encounter speculation writ large on Matt's face.

"What?" he demanded.

"Seems like you've changed your mind about that 'enticing.'"

"If I have? I thought it's what you wanted."

"That was before I met her. That one needs kindness, not enticing."

"What makes you think I can't do both?"

He took four steps toward the main street before he shouted over his shoulder, "Keep an eye on Clarke."

They ducked into the tavern before he could catch up, and Rob couldn't say why he succumbed to the impulse chase after them. Perhaps he meant to apologize for Clarke, as if pride didn't slam that hatch closed. Perhaps he ought to talk to the boy. One thing seemed certain: he wanted to ease Beth Gordon's distress, a thought even more ludicrous than the first two. Clarke at least was his responsibility, and the boy might prove a valued addition to the crew. The woman was neither.

Fixed to the spot, unwilling to go back, Rob stared at Gordon's place. That's what the townsfolk called it, "Gordon's place," there being no sign to indicate a name or other designation, and, from the look of it, the tavern didn't deserve one. Situated at the far end of Speyness on the lone business street, it sat across from a livery in the shadow of a two-story building with a chandler's shop below and the shopkeeper's storage above.

To Rob's eyes the tavern crouched on the road front like a tired beggar too weary to entice coin from sympathetic travelers. The door hung loose, soot darkened the windows, and the roof sank in the middle, offering chancy protection at best. Smoke bellowed from the chimney at the rear, however, and the smell of everlasting mutton stew wafted toward him. He'd been told as soon as he arrived that he might find better fare at the inn along the Spey "a wee bit down" the road to Fochabers. He never found time to check.

With Clarke back and Farley a week from travel, he ought to be in his cabin looking to charts and weather. He ought to be supervising the repairs to the damaged spar. He ought to be watching Clarke like a sea-hawk. If Mistress Gordon beat her son, it was no business of Rob's. Nor did Beth Gordon's distress belong to him.

An immense weariness of soul weighed him down. He moved closer to the door of the tavern, scanning the peeling plaster and stained whitewash across the front. No run down alehouse could offer him solace. If he needed rest, his paints awaited him. On the Molly Jane. In his cabin.

Beth Gordon didn't belong to him.

Rob cursed himself for a fool, put out a hand, and went in.