The Night Mark(45)

“But a girl as young and sweet as Miss Faith? She’d blow away in a stiff breeze.”

“I’m twenty, not two,” she said. If there was anything she hated, it was being infantilized by a man. “I can handle the light if and when I have to.”

“Twenty? I was under the impression you were seventeen. I must have misheard that figure.”

Faye winced internally. She’d done it. She’d flubbed a line.

“Faith is twenty now,” Carrick said hastily. “She was seventeen when I got out of the navy. Maybe the years got mixed up in the telling.”

“You must have married young to have a daughter of twenty. You’re thirty-five, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Faith was five years old when I married her mother,” Carrick said. “My late wife had lost her husband when Faith was still just a baby.”

“Oh, I see.” Hartwell smiled and put his boater back on his head. “Any plans to remarry? You’re a young man after all. About as young as me.”

“No plans,” Carrick said. “I’m content as I am.”

“You must have loved your wife very much.”

“Very much,” Carrick said with real feeling. “But I can’t see myself remarrying. Not until my girl is safe and settled.”

“Now it all makes sense,” Hartwell said, taking his hat off once more and placing it over his heart. “Let me offer my condolences on the loss of your wife and Miss Morgan’s mother. I lost my own mother at fifteen, and a finer woman there never lived. I understand when a woman is irreplaceable.”

“Thank you,” Carrick said and said no more. Faye struggled to say silent. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but she couldn’t risk it, especially not in front of Hartwell. She’d already screwed up by revealing Faith’s real age. Of course Carrick had told people his daughter was seventeen if he was thirty-five. They must have created a whole story to explain why a girl had shown up one day at the lighthouse and moved in with the keeper.

“Twenty years old,” Hartwell said, interrupting her thoughts. “I guess you’ll be getting married soon enough. Then you’ll leave your poor father behind to tend the light all by himself. Or are you planning on devoting the rest of your life to your daddy?”

“No reason I can’t do both,” Faye said. “Right? The man I marry can be the assistant keeper, and we’d all live in one house under the same roof.”

“You paint a pretty picture,” Hartwell said. “But surely some handsome man is going to come along and sweep you off your feet. Carry you away to Beaufort or Charleston. I love living in Charleston myself. Quite a town. I think you’d like to see it, wouldn’t you? I’d be happy to show you around whenever you like.”

“I’m sure I’ll be awfully busy out here,” Faye said.

“Surely your father could spare you for one evening. I’d bring my boat out to fetch you and take my new Talbot tourer into town. We’d ride into Charleston in high style.”

“Faith is right. We are awfully busy out here.”

“Miss Morgan, tell me how are you going to find this magic man to marry who will be your father’s assistant keeper if you don’t leave the island?”

“I don’t have to leave the island to find a husband,” she said.

“You don’t? You think he’s going to come to you?” Hartwell asked, his voice teasing. But she didn’t feel teased—she felt threatened.

“He already has,” Faye said. “I’m engaged.”





12


If it weren’t for the knot of terror lingering in the pit of Faye’s stomach, she might have laughed at the twin expressions of astonishment on Carrick’s and Hartwell’s faces. Carrick recovered first.

“You hadn’t mentioned that to me,” he said.

“I was waiting for the right time.” Faye tried to sound girlish and apologetic, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. She would never make it in a career on the stage. “I knew you wouldn’t want me marrying a sailor. You told me so many times how hard the life is.”

“When is the blessed occasion?” Hartwell asked in a too-friendly tone.

“We haven’t decided yet. I met him in Boston but he had to ship out again. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“And that’s why I said I didn’t want you marrying a seaman.” Carrick fell into the role of the concerned father as if he’d been born to play it.

“What’s your gentleman’s name?” Hartwell asked. “I’ll keep my ears open for any news of his return to you.”

Faye spoke the first name that came to mind.

“Pat Cahill,” she said. “Patrick Cahill.”

“A sailor, and of good Irish stock like your father. You must really love your father,” Hartwell said, grinning that plastered-on smile again that made Faye think about shoving corncobs into dimly lit places.

“I know the life,” she said. “That’s all.”

“My felicitations to the happy couple.” Hartwell swept his hat down and gave her a bow. “Now, Chief, perhaps you’ll walk me to my boat. It’s a testy little critter. Then I’ll be on my way and let you get back to work.”