Miss Whitaker Opens Her Heart Read online

  Cover image © Mark Owen / Arcangel Images

  Cover design copyright © 2017 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Moore

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: April 2017

  ISBN 978-1-52440-345-4

  For Marshy V,

  who always has the golden gun.

  Acknowledgments

  How can I begin to say thanks to all the people who bring a book to life?

  I’m so grateful to my parents for the use of their cabin so I could squirrel myself away for some good writing time.

  And thank you to my family, Frank and my boys, who made do on their own for a few weekends while I escaped.

  My critique group: Josi Kilpack, Nancy Allen, Ronda Hinrichson, Jody Dufee, and Becki Clayson. Thank you, girls, for listening to a first draft and helping me make it better.

  Thanks to Sharon Robards, whose fabulous book, A Woman Transported, gave me inspiration and a taste for life in the penal colony of New South Wales. I’m so grateful to you for your research tips, your willingness to look over my manuscript and give advice, and your patience with my questions. One of my favorite things about writing is all the wonderful friends I make on the journey.

  Margot Hovley and Josi Kilpack, thank you for setting aside your own projects and giving this a read-through. I appreciate your input so much.

  Thank you, Jodie Sanders, for setting up an appointment, going with me to the sheep ranch, and spending the day tromping around in the mud and documenting the whole thing on your phone. You’re such a good friend.

  Thanks to Chad and Ann Edgington for showing me around your ranch, answering questions, sharing your expertise, and giving me a taste of the nitty-gritty parts of sheep farming. I loved it.

  Madison Kilpack, thank you for taking pictures, answering questions, and letting me experience Australia through your eyes.

  Carla Kelly, thank you for your excellent advice on research and for letting your fabulous character Lord Ragsdale make an appearance in this book.

  And my crew at Covenant, thank you for taking my manuscript and making it into a beautiful book. Stacey Turner, I’m so lucky to have you for an editor and friend. Thank you for making the words sound pretty. Thanks, Michelle Pipitone, for the cover art, Stephanie Lacy for your marketing skills, and everyone else who gives their expertise to make me look good.

  Prologue

  1804—South Atlantic Ocean

  “Good afternoon, Miss Whitaker,” Captain Ainsley said as Sarah stepped out of the companionway onto the deck. His thick white hair blew in the warm sea breeze as he tipped his head toward her.

  Sarah dipped in a curtsey. “Hello, Captain. Mr. Thackeray told me we will cross the equator today, but I have not seen him, have you?”

  The captain seemed to pause for an instant before answering. “I’ve not.”

  Sarah felt a bit disappointed. The first mate had made crossing the equator sound very exciting, and yet her closest friend aboard the Coeur D’Alene was nowhere to be found. Mr. Thackeray never treated her like a child—she was eleven years old after all—but instead made her feel like one of the crew.

  The captain excused himself, and Sarah walked to the rail, marveling at the vastness of the ocean. In the six weeks since they’d left Portsmouth harbor, they had seen but one other ship and, aside from the Canary Islands, not one speck of land.

  Mr. Thackeray had shown her the sailing route on the captain’s large map. Each morning, after the deck officers made their calculations, he’d tap his finger on a spot, indicating the ship’s position. She thought they were moving dreadfully slow. And according to the first mate, they still needed to stop for supplies in Rio de Janeiro, then sail southeast, beneath Africa and through the Indian Ocean, rounding the southern point of Port Jackson and then north, past Botany Bay to Sydney Cove in the colony of New South Wales.

  This morning he’d pointed to a spot near the thick line that split the map into the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. “We’re entering into Neptune’s kingdom, Little Minnow,” he’d said. His eyes were bright as if they held a secret. “Only the most seaworthy of sailors are permitted in his domain.”

  “I am seaworthy.” Sarah held up her chin, considering the past weeks aboard the ship. Unlike her aunt Hortensia and many of the other passengers, she’d not been seasick for an instant. She did not like to remain all day in the passenger dining room or her small cabin and much preferred to assist the sailors with their duties on deck. Her aunt had not been pleased with the idea, but since the older woman typically chose to remain below decks, Sarah had found if she listened to her aunt’s admonishments with a thoughtful expression then promised to behave, she could do as she pleased.

  Just as soon as she’d come aboard, Sarah and Mr. Thackeray had become friends. He told her she reminded him of his daughters. To keep her occupied during the long weeks, he had assigned her various tasks: scrubbing the wooden decks with a slab of limestone he called a holystone, unraveling yards of rope to make oakum for caulking, polishing the bulwark rails until they shone. As Sarah worked, she chatted with the other seamen who told her tales and taught her shanties that she learned quickly not to repeat in her aunt’s presence.

  Aunt Hortensia would disagree, but Sarah had found the voyage to be anything but dull, in spite of the duration. The sea was full of surprises. Sometimes, she found she could stare at the changing colors of the water for hours on end. Mr. Thackeray had pointed out schools of porpoises and allowed her to look through his spyglass. The only time he’d forbidden her from assisting the deckhands was during a storm or when the sailors climbed aloft to trim or reef the sails.

  She heard footsteps approaching and turned, hoping Mr. Thackeray had finally been found. But she saw with some disappointment that it was only Aunt Hortensia. Sarah straightened her shoulders, smoothed her skirts and curtseyed.

  Beneath the shade of her parasol, the woman’s eyes were squinted in a look of disapproval, and Sarah was relieved to be found merely standing on deck instead of sitting on a crate, swinging her legs as she chatted with Mr. Owen while he mended sails or taught her to tie knots. Though she was not cruel, Aunt Hortensia had a disposition that was far from warm, and since Sarah’s father was away for years at a time and her mother had died at her birth, her aunt was the nearest thing to family that Sarah knew. And the woman was determined that her young charge should act like a lady in all circumstances.

  “A fine day to be at sea, is it not?” Sarah said by way of greeting. Mr. Thackeray often used this very same sentiment, and Sarah thought it was the perfect way to describe a sunny sky glistening on the water and a slight wind blowing the sails.

  “If you mean the waves are not tossing the boat about making passengers ill, then I suppose it is fine.” Aunt Hortensia curled up her lips. “But one day at sea is very much the same as another. When I consider we are to be aboard this ship for over five ghastly months . . .” She closed her eyes as if it were too much to bear.

  “But just think of it!” Sarah clasped her hands in front of her breast
. “In New South Wales, we shall see a real kangaroo and native aborigines with dark skin and throwing sticks. And koalas climbing in eucalypt trees. We shall hear a kookaburra and finally visit the property in Paramatta.” She swallowed a thickness in her throat. “And Papá! How I have missed him.” She had not seen her father for nearly three years and felt a mixture of sadness and anticipation that very nearly overwhelmed her. “I shall be glad to see Papá.” She spoke in nearly a whisper, pushing the words through a tight throat and rubbing her itching eyes.

  “When we return to London, you will need finishing school lessons more than ever.” Aunt Hortensia’s voice snapped Sarah out of her ponderings. “Why your father thinks a young girl should be taken to a savage, inhospitable land is beyond me. Certainly, mingling with sailors and convicts will do nothing to forward you in society—”

  “But they are not all convicts,” Sarah burst out. The look of disapproval she received at interrupting only made her talk faster. “Papá says many free settlers have come to make a new life. And he believes convicts can be reformed. Some even have a pardon from the governor—a ticket-of-leave. They own land and farms and live honestly.”

  “And these are the sort of people with whom your father associates.” Aunt Hortensia sniffed. “If my dear sister were alive to see this . . .” She closed her eyes again and blew out a breath through her nose as if she needed to calm herself. Sarah would not be surprised if even the mention of their destination proved too much for her aunt and she took to her cabin with smelling salts.

  Sarah turned her attention from her aunt and watched curiously as a group of sailors stretched a large piece of canvas sail over the deck. Ropes stretched from the corners and were tied to the rails and mast to form a basin into which buckets of water were poured, making a shallow reservoir. She wondered if the crew was planning to wash their clothing.

  A cry from the bow drew her attention, and she moved with the deckhands toward a commotion at the front of the ship.

  She looked through the cluster of men until she found Mr. Owen. “What is happening?”

  “An ol’ sailor tradition, it is, miss. The crossing of the line ceremony.” Mr. Owen grinned, showing gaps in his smile where teeth were missing. He pointed a knobby finger toward the bow. “Go on, there, ye’ll not be wantin’ to miss this.”

  Sarah moved to the front of the crowd and saw a group of crewmen hauling something from the sea. Perhaps a large marlin or sea turtle? When they pulled it onto the deck, Sarah gasped. It was not a fish but a man. She drew back.

  The man stood straight with strands of seaweed draped over his shoulders and a dented metal crown on his head. His matted beard reminded her of a dirty mop. She squinted. It looked very much like a dirty mop.

  He took a step forward, dripping water onto the deck, and raised a staff with prongs on the end. A trident, Sarah realized. Is this truly a magical monster from the deep? Another dripping figure was pulled over the rail, then another. Both were draped with seaweed and wore shapeless robes. One appeared to be a woman with long matted hair. The other’s face was nearly obscured by a wet strip of cloth that looked a bit like a dirty cravat.

  Sarah glanced around, searching for Mr. Thackeray but could not see him anywhere. She backed up, thinking she would run toward the companionway and hide in her cabin, but she stopped when Captain Ainsley stepped forward and bowed to the sea man.

  “Welcome aboard, King Neptune.”

  Sarah froze. Was this real? The captain did not look afraid, but could it truly be King Neptune? And what harm was he capable of with his weapon? Hadn’t Mr. Thackeray warned her they were entering into the sea king’s realm? Would they be punished for trespassing?

  She looked at the deckhands and saw that they were smiling. Some actually looked excited. Her fear started to melt, and she looked back toward the strange figures.

  King Neptune swept his eyes over the sailors and the passengers that had joined them on the deck. “Captain, I have a subpoena from Davy Jones for the uninitiated pollywogs aboard this ship to stand trial in my court.” He spoke in a loud, deep voice.

  King Neptune took a seat on a crate as if it were a throne, and the other two flanked him. He motioned to one of his companions with a sweep of his hand.

  The creature with the wrapped face stepped forward. “I am Davy Jones. Let it be known that you are now in the realm of the king of the sea. And slimy pollywogs are required to prove their seaworthiness before Neptune.”

  Sarah glanced to her side and saw that Mr. Owen stood near. She scooted closer to her friend. “Mr. Owen, what is a pollywog?”

  “One whot ’as never crossed into the Southern ’emisphere, miss.”

  “Then am I a pollywog?” Sarah asked, a nervous thrill moving over her.

  “Aye, that you are.” The corner of Mr. Owen’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Most certainly, miss.”

  Sarah glanced back to where Aunt Hortensia stood beside other passengers. Her parasol shaded her eyes, but her lips were tight in an expression of utter disapproval. “And is Aunt Hortensia a pollywog too?”

  Mr. Owen glanced over his shoulder then quickly back. His smile grew. “Maybe she ain’t a pollywog.”

  Davy Jones read off names of the novice sailors. The men stepped forward and knelt in a line on the deck before King Neptune.

  He lowered the paper and looked as if he’d say something else, but instead he leaned close and listened to the king before he turned back to the crowd. “Sarah Whitaker.” His raspy words carried over the hushed voices and the whisper of the waves against the hull.

  Sarah’s stomach tightened with both nervousness and excitement. She glanced back toward Aunt Hortensia. Her aunt’s face was pulled into a scowl of disapproval, and she shook her head.

  “Go on,” Mr. Owen whispered. “Yer shipmates’ll not allow any ’arm to come to ya, miss.”

  Sarah pushed down her shoulders and held her head high. She stepped forward, kneeling beside the other pollywogs.

  “You pollywogs are charged with posing as true sailors without paying tribute to the god of the sea.” Davy Jones paced before them, water dripping off the tips of the seaweed leaves. He motioned to the first person in the line with a sweep of his hand and ordered him to present himself to Neptune. The man rose and bowed to the sea king, kissing his extended hand. When he stepped back, three sailors grabbed him and tossed him into the pool of seawater they had created on the deck.

  The sailors cheered, and when he climbed, sputtering from the pool, Davy Jones announced that he was now a “trusty shellback.”

  Sarah was still trying to make sense of what had happened when she heard Davy Jones call her name. She walked forward.

  King Neptune stretched out his hand, and Sarah hesitated. She was no longer afraid but uncertain.

  “Not to worry, Little Minnow,” he said in a low voice.

  Sarah looked closer into Neptune’s face. She gasped when she recognized the smiling eyes of Mr. Thackeray behind the filthy costume beard.

  He winked. “You claimed to be seaworthy. Shall we find out?”

  Sarah grasped his hand, planted a kiss on it, then ran to the canvas pool, laughing when the sailors lifted her over the side. She splashed into the cold water, slipping as she tried to stand. Strong arms pulled her out and set her onto the deck. Her gown was dripping, her slippers squishing out water, and she could not hold back her swell of pride when her shipmates proclaimed her a shellback.

  Captain Ainsley shook her hand, offering congratulations, and she glanced once more at Mr. Thackeray in his costume that now looked comical instead of frightening. He wiggled his eyebrows, and she grinned, knowing he was proud of her bravery. How much I will have to tell Papá.

  That night, after her aunt was asleep, Sarah lifted a long wooden tube that leaned in the corner of the cabin and sat upon her berth, turning the instrument over and listening to the sound of falling rain. Papá had told her small rocks and seeds made the sound by sliding over obstacles i
nside the tube. She studied the markings, rubbing her finger along a line of white dots on the dark wood and wondering about the hands that made them. Her father had told her stories—both on his visits and in letters—about the aboriginal people in New South Wales. The Eora, he’d told her, were the indigenous people that lived around the area of Sydney Town. He’d even become friends with a man named Bennelong and his wife, Barangaroo. In the darkness, Sarah whispered the names, liking the strange feel of them in her mouth, and turned over the rain stick again.

  She’d imagined the land on the bottom side of the earth—with its backward seasons, unpredictable weather, and animals that sounded like mythological creatures—for so long that it felt to her like an enchanted world from a fairy tale. And soon, she’d not have to imagine anymore.

  

  Four months later, Mr. Thackeray stood beside Sarah on the port side of the ship watching across the sparkling blue water as a flag was raised on a rocky hill high above Sydney Town. “Cover your ears,” he warned.

  The cannons of the ship boomed in salute, and blasts from the shore fired in response.

  Sarah clapped her hands. After months at sea, the last hours had seemed like an eternity. “Just wait, Mr. Thackeray. You shall love Papá. You must come to Parramatta for supper at Sarah Hills.” She smiled, thinking how much her father loved her—he’d named his sheep farm after her to feel close to her while he was all the way on the bottom of the world.

  “Of course you will be welcome anytime,” Aunt Hortensia said, joining them.

  Sarah gripped the rail, leaning forward. “A boat is approaching!” She took the offered spyglass from Mr. Thackeray. “Perhaps it is Papá.” But squinting through the lens, she could not recognize any of the men on the small boat rowing toward them. Where was her father? He’d promised to meet them as soon as they arrived.

  Captain Ainsley came to stand next to his first mate. “The governor of the colony coming to greet us personally?” His voice was low and the tone seemed uncertain.