Excerpt: Captains Marshall

Prologue
It is difficult to pinpoint the exact beginning of any story. For each character there are parents who shaped her life and made her who she is and grandparents who in turn influenced her parents and so on. There are events that caused other events that were themselves the effect of some previous event. For each blossom must be remembered the branch, the trunk and the roots that run unendingly beneath her. But for all intents and purposes– since we must start somewhere – our story begins on a dock in Dartmouth Harbour late one summer night.
A few young sailors quietly prepared an unnamed ship, rocking gently in the dark harbour, to sail. The ship still smelled of sawdust and that light woody odour lingered in the noses of the boys as they went noiselessly about their work. They slipped through the shadows as silent ghosts flitting over the deck. No one spoke a word of the journey they were about to take, but the gravity of their circumstances weighed heavily in the air.
On the exquisite bow of the vessel, the silhouettes of two young girls were illuminated in the moonlight. They stood strong and steady against the dark sky, ready to begin their secret journey into the night – never to return again. The silver shades of the moon shone off their hair and garments. One dress was of emerald green, the other the deep, rich burgundy colour of wine. They were cousins Saoirse and Giselle Marshall and this mission was their doing.
The beautiful new ship on which they were standing was the last creation of their fathers George and Michael Marshall, the well-known shipwrights of Dartmouth Harbour. The Marshall twins had worked tirelessly designing this ship for the King’s Navy. It was to be their masterpiece. The elaborate and efficient design of the ship was a testament to the genius of the brothers. Unfortunately fate did not intend for either of them to see their greatest work become a reality. They both lost their lives to the fierce sea before the ship was completed, one to a treacherous storm and the other from a blow to the head when a line snapped in the wind. Their mother saw that the work on the ship continued.
The girls held their breath as the sails unfurled. The swooping sound of the heavy canvas unrolling stirred something in them. It beckoned their new life to begin. Through fear and doubt, they would stand firm and let that wind carry them on.

It was 1661. In England, restoration of the monarchy has begun with the crowing of King Charles II, Portugal has given the monarch Tangier and Bombay as part of his marriage contract to his wife Catherine, John Evelyn has taken on the issue of pollution in London, and the heiresses of Marshall Ships are about to take to sea.
After a lifetime of longing to explore the oceans like their fathers before them, the Marshall girls were finally realizing this dream. But it had been a most upsetting chain of events that had led them to this act.


Chapter One: The Hag of Dartmouth Harbour
“Miss Giselle, Miss Saoirse,” the quiet voice of the maid drifted from the hallway.
“What is it, Anne?” Saoirse asked solemnly as the serving girl opened the door into their dimly lit room. She and Giselle had barely emerged from the room for almost a month, since both their fathers had been taken – their deaths only about a week apart.
Anne looked in on them with sad eyes. For days and days on end she had watched them. They never left the room, never opened the drapes, and never so much as lit a lamp. She rarely even heard a sound and if she hadn't known differently, she would have thought the room was completely unoccupied. Each day she brought them trays of food and each day she took them back again, practically untouched. She presumed they just sat there, staring into the dark, and unfortunately, she wasn't wrong. Anne had only ever seen such disconsolate behaviour once. Several years before Saoirse had slipped into a similar depression, for unknown reasons. It took her what seemed like ages to come out of it. Anne had felt helpless then. The thought of watching the painful self-destruction again, this time drawing the life from both of the girls, was almost unbearable.
Anne had always envied the Marshall heiresses and the loving relationships they had with their parents. She did not envy the sorrow they felt now, and almost considered herself lucky that she had not had that bond with anyone. She feared the girls had lost their minds and did not seem to be fighting to regain them. “Your grandmother craves a word with you both. She is waiting in the parlour.”
Anne had been with the family for many years, although she was only several years older than the two girls. She was the only female friend either of them had, aside from each other. Their mothers were free-spirited and "rather crude," as their grandmother had said many times before. They did not teach their daughters much in the way of "ladylike behaviour". Saoirse and Giselle’s grandmother was the complete opposite extreme and they both tried to avoid her like the plague. They had no desire to acquire any other female friends and despised going on social calls with their grandmother. As a result, Anne was their only feminine example. What little bit of that "ladylike behaviour" they did have, they had unwittingly gotten from her.
The girls stood and followed their servant and friend into the hall. Lost in indifference, they were not even curious of the news awaiting them. Neither of them expected it to be anything of interest as their grandmother, a very society-conscious woman, always had some kind of wisdom to impart to them in the hopes of making them “proper ladies.”
The last time Saoirse had been summoned by her grandmother was not an event she remembered tenderly, though was certainly not her worst memory. She found herself in her grandmother’s apartment in the west wing of the house. She was sitting, quite uncomfortably, across from the old woman, little more than a baneful stranger in her young eyes. The room was dark and smelt a bit musty. Saoirse especially remembered this because the servants kept the rooms quite clean, as they did the rest of the house, which was never known to smell the slightest bit musty.
The lamp that sat on the table between them cast dark shadows over the features of the eldest Marshall woman, making her appear even more corpse-like than usual.
Sitting in silence, Saoirse watched as the old woman’s face seemed to survey her disapprovingly for a few moments, and prepared herself for an irritated lecture that did not come.
“It is your responsibility to set a good example,” the elderly widow finally said sweetly, taking her granddaughter aback.
“Pardon?”
“Friends you may be, and I am glad for it,” though she did not sound as if she was really glad for anything, “but Giselle is your younger cousin and she looks to you for example.”
Saoirse considered the words for a moment, and also the fact that the sugary voice was edged with a noticeable forced effort.
“I understand,” she replied quietly, trying to hide the intimidation she felt when face to face with the woman.
Lady Marshall narrowed her bug-like eyes. “I am not certain that you do. Saoirse, why can you not be proud of what you are?”
Not proud of what I am? She thought quickly, wondering what that could possibly mean. Maybe it was some kind of trick question, or possibly a test of loyalty to the family. “But I am, Grandmother, I come from good blood and background.”
The look on her grandmother’s face indicated that this is not what she had meant, and she likely disagreed as to whether or not her granddaughter came from good blood. “I meant,” she kept the sweet voice in tact, but it became even more forced, “being a woman.”
“Being a woman?” Saoirse repeated, rather surprised. What did being a woman mean to her? It kept her from her dream, to sail with her father, society would have it keep her from her friends, as it was scandalous to be seen with the boys from the Marshall docks, and it forced her to be dependant on others when she wanted freedom above all. She and Giselle had always dreamed of going off to sea with their fathers. Saoirse had never stopped to wonder why they wanted it so – she always just assumed it was because her father loved his life so much. If she had thought on it harder she might have realized it was because it took him away. Michael and George were both away frequently. It was when they were gone, particularly after Reeves Marshall, Giselle and Saoirse’s grandfather, had died, that their grandmother took the most interest in the girls. Now they longed for the same escape.
No, Saoirse did not find much about being a woman to be fond of or embrace. This response would not do, she knew, but she did not wish to lie so she kept her silence.
“It is a great responsibility and honour, being a woman,” Lady Marshall continued. Her voice broke a bit halfway through the sentence, but she quickly recovered the candied timbre. “You do wish to take a husband, do you not?”
Saoirse felt a surge of annoyance as she realized the direction the conversation was taking but repressed it forthwith. “Yes, Grandmother,” she said as quietly and respectfully as possible. “Once I find the appropriate man to take.”
The honey coated words stopped. This was the limit, apparently. “You cannot afford to wait, Saoirse, you are getting old, if you have not noticed, and cannot afford to be choosy. You think too much of yourself and not enough of the family.” Lady Marshall snapped. She took a breath to steady herself. The girl was stupidly stubborn, she realized, and she despised her for it. It was obviously a trait that she was blind to in herself.
“The duty of a woman,” she continued more softly, “is to care for a man. You must marry and bear children; it is your lot in life.”
Saoirse suppressed another pang of irritation. She had been raised better than to disrespect her elders with harsh words or raised voices. She kept her tone gentle and mannerly, hoping that her grandmother would not notice the defiance of the words. “It is not my duty to be subservient to anyone, and if society would have me be, I at least want to be the one that decides who this master will be.”
Lady Marshall’s lips thinned and she clenched her teeth. She sat for a moment, her bony fingertips turned white as she pressed them, frustrated, into the table. After a few minutes of burning silence, she stood from the table, muttered something that sounded more than a bit like “hopeless” and exited the room. In the hall Saoirse heard her stop a servant that was passing by and say, “Inform the kitchen that Miss Saoirse will not be receiving meals for two days.”

As Saoirse trudged down the corridors in the wake of Anne and Giselle, she did not worry so much about this new visit with her grandmother. She did not believe she had it in her to care what was said. Still, both she and Giselle were a little surprised when they stepped into the parlour. Their grandmother was not the only person they found. In front of the mantle their withered grandmother stood, but Saoirse’s mother Genevieve was standing to the right of the frail but stern old woman and Brielle, Giselle’s mother, was on her left. Both of the Marshall twins had chosen brides from ports visited in their younger days when they had sailed to deliver new ships commissioned of their father Reeves. It was something their mother had never exactly approved of.
Both women looked as lost as their daughters; their appearances lacked the usual refinement they had adapted to, at the least, look the part of the class they had married into. Genevieve's red hair was draping lifelessly about her shoulders instead of being gracefully swept back as it usually was. Brielle's blond hair had a similar appearance and her neck and hands were free of their customary decorative baubles. Neither of them had the will to try. This was a source of great annoyance to the elder Lady Marshall.
Before the three women were two chairs waiting to hold their unhappy and unwilling captive audience through something. But what? Despite her initial indifference, Saoirse was beginning to get a bad feeling about this meeting. Giselle had a sneaking suspicion that they were being set up.
“Please have a seat girls,” their grandmother, her harsh face pinched by the unpleasant thought that none of the other women in this room cared much for decorum, instructed them in her low, raspy voice. This was the way she usually sounded, when she was not going to the trouble of pretending to be nice. She waited for the girls to be seated in the luxurious armchairs in front of her before she began her speech. “I have had enough of this brooding.” Her voice was not a very pleasant thing to hear. She had a tone of a droning lecturer channelling a whining child. “This family has suffered a great tragedy, but we must not forget ourselves in our sorrow." She said it rigidly, as if she was obligated to speak the words but did not really mean them. Giselle slumped in her seat and doubted that her grandmother knew what sorrow was. "All of us must think of our lives and face the future.” She paused for a moment to study the unenthusiastic young faces that looked at her. “I have good news for you girls, something that will make you want to see the sun again. Within a month you will both be married!” The skinny old woman waited for a response. Clearly she thought that this announcement would elicit sheer joy from her granddaughters.
There was silence. Brielle and Genevieve still showed no emotion, not even a sign of recognition of the news. Something inside each of them had died with their husbands and they resigned themselves to the will of their mother-in-law. The girls looked puzzled as the words began to register with them. “Married?” Giselle asked softly. She was not sure she had heard correctly. “To whom?”
“I have chosen husbands for you, you needn’t worry about that. They are fine gentlemen, of course.”
“You have chosen husbands for us?” Saoirse’s voice was weak, but there was heat in it. “And what gives you the right to choose husbands for us?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Marshall was completely aghast.
After weeks of nothing, there was emotion swimming about in these young girls once more. The rust on the gears in Saoirse’s head began to flake away and her eyes came alive. Anger was growing in her. She stood and prepared to be heard. “You, of all people, shall not decide my future.” She grew louder and more passionate as she thought over her grandmother’s proposition. “You, who had little involvement in my life, our lives,” she gestured to Giselle, “except to lecture us on how we could better fit your ideals.”
A hand to her heart, her grandmother stood in horror. “You will not speak to me in such a way!” she demanded.
“I will when necessity calls for it.” Saoirse had had little to do with the old woman during her life, it was true – at least she had tried her best to keep it that way. She had certainly never spoken to her in anger, but respect for her elders would not make her resign her future. She stared the old woman down, but she did not seem to be about to bend. It was clear that this route would get her nowhere. “Mother, tell her she has no right.”
Saoirse’s appeal to her mother seemed to fall on deaf ears for a moment. Finally Genevieve muttered, “Your grandmother says it is for the best.” Clearly there was no hope that life would return to Genevieve and the shock and disappointment struck her daughter hard.
Saoirse’s mouth fell open. Genevieve had once been strong and fiery. She would not have let this old woman stomp upon the ideals of love that she and her husband had worked so tirelessly to instil in their daughter. As Saoirse's own eyes began to clear from the blinding fog of grief, she realized that her mother, the woman that she knew, was lost to her; she would no longer defend her. Giselle’s silent gaze on her own mother was not met either. Brielle had never been as feisty as her sister-in-law, but always kind and gentle and caring completely for other people's misfortune. Yet now Brielle’s eyes were fixed firmly on the floor.
“There you see?” the old woman quipped, “Even she knows when to listen to reason.” The emphasis on the word ‘she’ rattled Saoirse.
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
The old woman stood tense. Her lip quivered with rage. Finally she snapped so completely, Saorise could have sworn she heard the mental barrier break. “A Scottish woman!” her arm flew towards Genevieve, barely missing her. “A French woman!” she carelessly flung her other arm. “What was wrong with an English girl? From a good family? But no!” she shrieked, “My ungrateful sons insisted they marry the girls they loved. As if love gets you anything in this world! And now they are dead. Dead!” she enforced the last word. “And leaving me with what? Half-breed granddaughters. Ingrates as well. I try to find you husbands and what thanks do I get? After all, I would not blame them if nobody would have you!” She screeched on, her voice growing louder than a little old lady should be able to project and her cheeks became redder, which only seemed to enhance the wrinkles. “It is obscene, Saoirse, that you are twenty and not yet betrothed. Do you not think it says something about yourself? And Giselle, you are not yet as old and undesirable as your cousin,” Saoirse mouthed the word “undesirable” as she shook in fury. Still her grandmother went on, “but you have expressed no interest in a suitor and are rapidly following her example. I hope you are pleased with yourself, Saoirse, ruining your cousin’s life as well as your own.” Her breath was heavy as she recovered from her outburst; the gravelly sound of it was the only noise in the room.
The beldame blamed all the things in Giselle and Saoirse that she did not like, almost everything, on their mothers as the bloodline of her sons would surely not produce such unusual people. Silent tears flowed down the cheeks of both the women she seemed to detest so much, yet they did not say a word. Without their husbands they were powerless in both society and their home. Without their mother-in-law’s support they had nothing.
Saoirse was left speechless.
Giselle stood. All she could manage to say was, “That is enough.” She took her cousin by the hand and led her from the room. They did not stop until they were outside the house.
Giselle’s head, like Saoirse’s, was reeling. “Let’s not think of this now. We will go to Billy’s for a while.”
With her eyes closed tight and a hand pressed to her forehead, Saoirse nodded. Her eyes burned and her heart pounded. She was not sure exactly what had happened. Their grandmother had never been the most agreeable person, but they really did not know her. They had hoped to never again see the full extent of her anger as they had only once in the past. As they walked to Billy’s they realized just how close they had come to reliving the events of that horrid time, and it hurt worse to think that their mothers may have just stood by for it.

There had been no sound of warning to precede the storm that was coming that disillusioning day, only words that seemed to appear from thin air. “I have just heard some distressing news.”
Saoirse and Giselle both jumped at the sudden voice that came from the open doorway. Giselle dropped her book while Saoirse spilled ink all over her Latin translations. They had heard no footsteps in the hall as they sat studying in the library. Turning to see their grandmother standing there with a letter in her hand, their heartbeats only quickened more. Ill news for her, they knew, could not possibly be good for them.
The deceptively feeble-looking woman waved the paper in front of her. “I have just received a note from Mrs. Crawley,” she said in a failed attempt at her sugary sweet voice that ended up sounding nothing but shrill. “It seems that she spotted my granddaughters in the company of several young men, unsupervised at the docks. And what is more, she said she saw you working. Oh let us see, what does it say again?” she angrily tore the paper open, ripping the corner as she did so. “’Dresses hiked up to expose all from the knee down and carrying large burdens like common pack mules’,” she read aloud. Her eyes were wild and darted back and forth between the two girls.
Clearly the old woman wanted some kind of reply, but Saoirse and Giselle did not offer any. They had not moved. Saoirse had not even tried to stifle the ink flow, even as it now dripped down her dress. They both sat paralyzed with shocked terror.
“Fine,” Lady Marshall said finally. “If you wish to behave like servants, you shall be punished like servants.” She crossed the room in several strides and grabbed Saoirse by the arm. The old woman was not exceptionally strong, but the surprise alone was enough to strike Saoirse hard as she was pulled from the room.
“Giselle!” Lady Marshall snapped, “You as well.”
Giselle came running after but more for Saoirse’s sake than to obey her grandmother. She had never seen her grandmother punish the servants, but realized that she probably did it in private to uphold her façade of kindness.
Lady Marshall stormed down the corridors with Saoirse in tow and Giselle behind. She rounded a corner and knocked Anne out of the way with little notice. When they reached Giselle and Saoirse’s room the old woman threw Saoirse in. As soon as Giselle had come up beside her, she shoved her in as well and slammed the door behind them. They heard the lock click and stared in silence for a few moments.
“Do you think she will just leave us here?” Giselle asked, almost hopefully. Saoirse did not reply. Neither of them was stupid enough to really believe this was over. Still, their stomachs sank when they realized they were right. Before long they heard footsteps returning.
The door opened and they were horrified at what they saw. Lady Marshall was holding a sturdy piece of wood that looked quite worn. Giselle could not help but wonder just how often her grandmother punished the servants.
“I am sorry, Saoirse,” the elderly lady said, not sounding very sorry at all, as she brought the board forcefully across the girl’s back. Saoirse was knocked down onto her bed by the blow and the pain stabbed through her. It was rather impressive the amount of force an old woman can conjure with the proper leverage. Giselle shrieked and reached out for her cousin. She did not know what to do but felt she had to do something. Before she got the chance, she was knocked back by her grandmother’s arm coming back for another assault on Saoirse. Giselle was struck in the face and stumbled backward, her mind too blurred to react. Lady Marshall did not seem to notice as she pummelled Saoirse a dozen more times and left the room, locking them in once again.
It was impossible for them to know how much time passed before they came back to themselves or spoke. The first thought in Saoirse’s mind, after she could again recognize her thoughts, was that this explained why certain “clumsy” servants always appeared so battered. Gingerly sitting up, Saoirse saw her dress was now spattered with both ink and blood. The only positive thought she had in her was, better me than Giselle. It was then that she looked over at Giselle. Her cousin was sitting on her bed staring at the wall. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut and a line of blood trailed from her hairline down her cheek and throat disappearing into her collar. Saoirse gasped and jumped up only to crumple to the floor in pain at the sudden movement.
Giselle did not look away from the wall as she said, “You are a fool to be concerned over me when you are far worse off.” She finally stood and helped Saoirse from the floor and back onto her bed. “Why did she only go after you?” Giselle’s voice held a tone that Saoirse did not like. It sounded a lot like guilt.
“Because I am older, I suppose, and should know better. The older I get the more of a disgrace I become.” Saoirse looked into Giselle’s bruised face and said firmly, “We did not do anything wrong. It is her that is wrong.”
Giselle nodded sullenly.
After what seemed like several more hours the girls heard movement outside the room again.
“Giselle?” They heard a whisper. “Saoirse?”
Giselle recognized the voice at once and flew to the door. “Mère?”
There was a relieved breath outside. “Mon chérie, are you alright?”
“Yes,” Giselle answered, not wanting to upset her mother with the details. “I fear Saoirse fares far worse than I.”
There was a worried gasp followed by a tentative, “Saoirse, can you hear me?”
“Do not worry, Aunt,” Saoirse said as quietly as she possible and still be heard from her bed. She kept the painful whimpers from her voice as best she could. “I do not believe I am broken.”
There was a momentary silence. Saoirse knew that her Aunt Brielle was trying to determine how much she was trying to hide.
“When we returned home from the market Anne told us what had happened. Genevieve finally convinced your grandmother that she longed to go on a social outing so I could check on you, but the old hag has the key and I am afraid she is not giving it up.” Despite the pain, both girls smiled at the words “old hag,” especially coming from Brielle, who was really as kind as Lady Marshall sometimes pretended to be.
It was three days before Genevieve finally convinced her mother-in-law to let the girls out of the room. They had had nothing but the water their grandmother had allowed Anne to bring them once a day. They spent a few weeks in the house healing before daring to venture forth. They would only receive a worse fate if anyone in town had discovered that the Marshall heiresses were battered or, worse yet, that it was at the hand of darling, kind, helpful Lady Marshall. From then on they tried their very best to forget about it and avoided their grandmother with twice the fervour.

Saoirse shook off the memory as best she could as she and Giselle rounded the bend near the docks. They passed the pub and the bakery as they neared Billy’s trading post, a small wooden building that looked as rough as most of the Old Salts that frequented it.
Billy Bell had been a slave in the earliest years of his life. Saoirse and Giselle’s grandfather, a pretty unusual man himself, found slavery abhorrent. He purchased Billy only to give him his freedom and offer him a job at the docks, to take or leave as he pleased. Young Billy had lost his family long before and so took the job building and sailing for Marshall Ships. Eventually Billy had saved enough that, along with a small loan from George Marshall, he opened a trading post near the Marshall docks.
The girls had often visited their friend’s trading post to see all the wandering seamen. Sometimes Billy would entertain them by relating the tales of pirates told by mariners who passed through. To young girls confined to the land, the stories of treasure, sword fights, and daring escapes always seemed ever so exciting. They thought they could use just that kind of distraction now, so headed down the streets toward their family docks near Castle Cove.
Billy, having seen them coming, greeted them at the door of his small, square building. It had two floors, the first being home to his shop and the kitchen, and above it his own modest bedroom and office.
“A visit from you girls is always most welcome, but what is wrong?” he asked, seeing the pained expressions on their faces. “Come and tell me over a drink.” They followed him to his kitchen and, as he poured them each a glass of wine, they told him of their grandmother’s wishes, and her real feelings for them.
“She wishes us to marry, Billy. Marry men we do not even know.” Giselle finished with exasperation. The events made her weary. They waited for some kind of suggestion as to how to remedy their situation, but Billy just stared into his cup as he swirled it slowly.
“I cannot say she was ever a kind woman, not like your mothers. What your grandfather saw in her I shall never know.” Billy sighed. “I imagine their marriage was arranged. We all knew that she always thought you girls were peculiar,” he smiled warmly, “and so you are, in wonderful ways. I do not think she sees playing at the docks with many low class boys as an appropriate pastime for young women.” He stopped when a bell tinkled in the main room. Billy stood to leave the kitchen and tend to the sailor who had just entered. He gave each of them a reassuring pat on the hand before he disappeared.
While Saoirse stared into her hands as if her fingers held the key to making things fit together, Giselle looked around. There were nautical tools and all sorts of items from foreign lands spread about the whole place, even there in the kitchen. “We could leave,” she said quietly, as if it was just a thought that managed to slip out of her head. Saoirse looked up at her then followed her gaze about the room.
Suddenly she saw what Giselle saw. Opportunity. “Grandmother is right,” she said thoughtfully, her mind clearing. “We need to think of our own lives and face the future.” Her lips curved slightly, not really into a smile, but more of a smirk at the idea that crept into her head. “We could take the new ship. I would rather that than the money of it going to that horrid woman,” Saoirse decided firmly.
Giselle smiled at her. “Find our own freedom.” They thought about it a few moments more, and then looked at each other again, their minds made up. “We’ll talk to Daniel about it tomorrow.”

The new day found Daniel Hardy standing on the dock beside the ship, now almost complete. He had taken over the supervision of construction after George and Michael were both lost. His hair was a light brown and the fine strands were easily ruffled by the wind. His face was kind, yet wise. The girls trusted Daniel above everyone. It was Daniel they went to when they needed a favour. They needed a favour now, a big one.
He turned when he heard their footsteps behind him, looking very relieved to see them. “Girls!” he called, racing over to meet them. “Are you two alright? I saw Billy in town yesterday evening, only briefly. He said that you had had some problem with your grandmother. He seemed very upset.” It did not surprise them at all that Billy had hidden his tumultuous feelings from them. Knowing that he was enraged by the news would not have helped them think any clearer.
“We are betrothed,” Giselle informed him.
His eyes widened and he raised an eyebrow. His gaze landed on Saoirse and he looked very perplexed indeed. “To whom?”
Giselle looked up at the ship behind him. “Precisely what I asked.” She said, absent-mindedly. She was clearly thinking over something else, and seemed to be sizing up the ship.
“We do not know them.” Saoirse said, her eyes on the vessel as well, not at all bothered by the noise of the horses and carriages and vendors winding through the streets of the town behind them. “Nor do we want to. She is a dreadful woman, with little feeling, but I fear that losing Father and Uncle George has quite pushed her over the edge.” She met Daniel’s gaze once more. “I know it is a lot to ask, Daniel, but we need your help.”
That was all Daniel needed to hear. There was nothing they could say now that would deter him. No matter if illegal, no matter how dangerous – these girls were the only family he had. “Help” was all he heard. The daughters of his closest friends would get whatever they needed as long as he was involved.

As the girls reluctantly ventured back toward their home, they passed the bakery again. A young man came running out, obviously having seen them from the window. He was slim and short with a round nose and blue eyes beneath his light, dusty brown hair. He carried several loaves of bread. “Saoirse! Giselle!” he called.
“Hello, Will,” Giselle said with a faint smile. She was glad to see him, but the anxiety she felt about her grandmother’s plans overpowered any glad feelings.
“Hello,” Saoirse said as well, “why are you not at the docks?”
The lad readjusted the bready burden in his arms. “The carpentry work is finished, they are mostly just outfitting her now,” he said of the ship back at the docks.
William Brody was a carpenter for Marshall. He was taken in by Reeves Marshall when he was only seven, after being arrested for picking pockets. Now only twenty, the same age as Saoirse, he was a skilled craftsman, having trained since that time with Elden Dryden, Marshall’s master carpenter.
“I have been worried, we all have. We have not seen the two of you for quite a while.” In fact he knew the exact day he had last seen them. It had been since the news of Michael Marshall’s death, which they had received first. William cleared his throat. It did not help his worrying for them when neither of them replied. “Saoirse, might I speak to you for a moment?” he asked, fidgeting with a corner of the linen his loaves were wrapped in.
Saoirse nodded and stepped away with him.
His eyes expressed his concern when she looked in them and she realized just how worried her friend had been while she and Giselle holed themselves up in their room and sorrow. “I’m very sorry,” he said to her. She nodded slightly but did not say anything. “I hope I have not hurt you even more greatly.”
Saoirse began to nod again, but looked up instead. She was confused, how could William have hurt her?
“When I was beset with grief you comforted me. You are my dearest friend and I should have been with you in your sorrow.”
She was taken aback. Her friend actually felt guilt over her pain. “No, Will. It isn’t your –”
“I tried,” William interrupted.
“Tried?” she wasn’t sure what he meant by that.
William swallowed. “I assume it was because of your grief that you didn’t want to see me. I think perhaps you were beside yourself. It must have been worse than I thought and I am sorry I did not persist.”
“I was reclusive, it’s true. Giselle and I have been shut away of our own accord, but I would have seen you. Surely you know I would never turn you away.”
“What?” William looked very befuddled. “I came to the house and asked Anne if I could see you. Your grandmother came and told me that you did not wish to see me. That your sorrow was great enough and you did not need urchins from the docks to remind you of it.”
Saoirse’s jaw dropped. As if she needed more reason to despise the old woman, she had denied her the comfort of a friend and insulted him in her name. “Oh, Will! I never said such a thing!”
With a small smile William said, “I hoped you hadn’t.”
Saoirse hugged him. “Thank you for coming,” she said into his ear. “I wish I could have seen you, it would have done me good.” She released him and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. “We must get home,” she said.
With a quick nod he said goodbye to her and Giselle. On the way back, Saoirse told Giselle what their grandmother had done to William. Giselle would have been appalled, but this development came as no surprise. It was precisely the kind of thing the old woman would see fit.

That night Daniel took several of the other workers and sailors of Marshall Ships to the local pub. He had invited many of the younger men, William among them, as they were very close to Giselle and Saoirse.
After buying a round of drinks he stood before these boys he supervised at the docks everyday. “Lads, I come to you today not as your superior, but as your friend. As we all must know, Lady Marshall is – excuse my harshness but – she is a crazed demon of a woman.”
The boys laughed. William raised his glass, “Here, here.”
Daniel lifted a hand to quiet them before going on. “She has openly expressed her hatred of Brielle and Genevieve…” soft gasps drifted around him, “… and her desire to redeem her ‘family honour’ has led her to offer up the hands of our Saoirse and Giselle, essentially to the highest bidder.”
There was silence. They stared at him dumbly. After giving them a moment to let the words sink in, he said sadly, “Our dear friends Michael and George are no longer with us. With the shipyard being headed by their mother, we will soon all be out of work. Now these girls who have been our friends since we each set foot on the Marshall docks, or since they were born," he referred to himself, "have asked us for help. I, for one, will not abandon them to misery. With nothing else to stay for, I will follow them wherever they need me.” He had prepared his argument well. He could not tell these boys what decision to make, but he hoped that they would find it in them to join this venture. In the end, all they needed to hear was the same that had spurred Daniel into action. Help.

Up on the hill overlooking the water, several streets away from the pub that was witnessing the secret meeting of the Marshall employees, a door opened in a dark, sleepy house.
“Shh!” Saoirse hissed as Giselle stepped on a creaky floorboard behind her.
“Do you think anyone will notice that things are missing?” Giselle whispered.
Saoirse shook her head. “The servants have never been allowed in here and you know Grandmother, Mother and Aunt Brielle never come in here anymore,” she said as she gently pushed the door to the Marshall brothers’ study further open. Looking around at the things that belonged to their fathers, strewn about in the darkness, Saoirse was again struck with her grief. By the expression on Giselle’s face as she glanced beside her in the doorway, she knew her younger cousin felt it as well. Saoirse took a deep breath, pushed her depression into the back of her mind, and stepped into the dark room. Giselle followed.
Saoirse picked up a candlestick that was sitting on the nearest desk. It happened to be Michael’s desk, her own father’s, and lit the wick with the candle she was carrying. Handing the new candlestick to Giselle, she said, “We want any map we can find, particularly the newer ones. We need an astrolabe, charts, a compass, parchment and quills and ink… Anything that we will use at some point.” Giselle nodded and turned to go search her own father’s desk, but before she had taken a step, Saoirse remembered one more thing. “Oh!” she said, “Let us not forget the spyglasses.”
The spyglasses had been a gift from the late Reeves Marshall when he bequeathed the business to Michael and George. They had been prized by the twins and returned to the study after each of their deaths by Daniel. As their friend and Michael’s First Mate, he took it upon himself to preserve and protect the things they cherished, as he was now determined to protect their daughters.
Saoirse found her father’s spyglass before anything else. It was lying on top, having been the last thing placed on the desk. The golden shimmer caught her eye in the candlelight. Tears stung her eyes as she picked up the shining telescope that was so lovingly cared for by her father. She held her candle close to it to read the inscription on the side. Engraved upon the shaft were the words, “Michael Marshall, Marshall Ships.” She turned to look through the darkness at Giselle. Her younger cousin was absent-mindedly turning her own father’s glass over and over again in her hands. Though Saoirse could not see it from where she stood, she knew that it read the same as the one she was holding, except instead of “Michael” it said “George.”
She tucked the spyglass tenderly into the bag she had brought with her and kept looking. She next discovered some recently drafted maps scouts had brought to the Marshalls of the Spanish Main. For some reason the ink blotted islands seemed to call to her. She rolled the parchments and tucked them away with the spyglass. She continued scouring the desk until she had found everything that would be of use to them when they set sail the following night.
On the next evening Lady Marshall was throwing a grand ball there at their estate to announce and celebrate the engagement of her granddaughters. After the announcement, while she was still distracted with her guests, they would make their way to the docks and, hopefully, their freedom.

Saoirse stared up at the dark ceiling after returning to their room. She was feeling somewhat disconnected with herself; her mind was on the bag of things from her father’s study that was now tucked clandestinely under her bed. She heard blankets rustle as Giselle rolled over in her bed on the other side of the room.
"Are you awake?" she heard Giselle whisper. She had presumed her younger cousin to be asleep, but it did not surprise her that Giselle was having a hard time of it as well.
"As far as I can tell," the elder cousin replied, not bothering to look away from the dark ceiling.
Giselle’s bed creaked as she sat up. "Do you suppose we will have good weather tomorrow?"
"I hope so." She said it coolly, unable to really focus. There were several hundred things running through Saoirse's brain and she was finding it difficult to concentrate on any one of them and impossible to let them go and sleep. Giselle must have been having the same problem because she settled back down into her bed restlessly.
Tomorrow they would make their escape, one day before the ship was to be presented to the Navy. If they succeeded they would be making a very narrow escape, they knew. It was likely that guard ships were already in the waters near the harbour, but there was no backing out now. They were committed. Saoirse was terrified, but she could not suppress the rising feeling inside of her. Could it possibly be... excitement? The life they had known and cherished in Dartmouth was gone. To stay would be a misery and sacrifice neither of them could tolerate. There was no mistaking it; there was of a brave excitement growing in her. They were leaving to forge a new life. Their lives, not a disguised dictation. Saoirse clung to that thought. They were right in their actions, she was sure of it. She would die before she would step down. Hoping it wouldn't come to that, she closed her eyes to force herself to sleep.

For two girls done up in their fineries, Giselle and Saoirse Marshall did not look very happy at all. In extravagant gowns and complicated hair styles piled upon their heads they waited at the edge of the grand ballroom to be presented like a gift to the men they were promised to. Giselle was dressed in a gown that was the deep colour of mulled wine. It was rich and warm and flowed around her. Saoirse was bedecked in a shimmering green that matched both the jewels she was adorned with as well as her eyes.
Saoirse wanted to speak to Giselle but when she tried to turn, she lost what breath she had as her corset pinched her tighter. She recovered her breath as best she could before turning her whole body as one solid piece to face her cousin.
“Do you have any idea which of these men are meant for us?” she asked.
“You mean which of these men we are meant for…” Giselle muttered.
That was more the way of it and Saoirse knew it. “Yes,” she sighed.
Giselle shrugged. “It matters little since we aren’t going to marry them anyway,” she replied, but there was a definite look of curiosity about her face. “I haven’t seen Mother,” Giselle commented, “or yours either, for that matter.”
Saoirse scanned the crowd in more detail. It was true, neither of their mothers were anywhere to be seen. “I imagine this would be too much for them to bear.” If it had not been for the distraction of their escape plan, it would have been too much for Saoirse to bear herself.
Couples whirled before them in the strategic patterns of the choreographed dance, but at the end of the song, the orchestra stopped playing and did not start again. Lady Marshall took her place at the head of the room to address her guests.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said with a plastered-on smile. “As you are aware, we are celebrating the engagement of my granddaughters. Sir Atticus Barrington Bradford of Trowbridge,” Saoirse watched as an angry-looking forty-something adorned in blue and a fanciful wig joined her grandmother, “will be wed to my eldest granddaughter, Saoirse Cordelia Kendra Marshall.” Saoirse cringed at the sound of her full name and quietly thanked God that her friends were not of high enough status to be present to hear it.
There was silence as the guests waited for Saoirse to join her chosen mate. I am leaving tonight; I will never see him again. I am leaving tonight. I am leaving. I am leaving. I am leaving. She chanted soundlessly until her legs would move. They grudgingly carried her to the man’s side. She refused to look at him; it was bad enough she had to stand near him. Sir Atticus disgusted her not because she found him unattractive, which she did, nor because he was near the same age her father would have been, which he was. It was because she was certain that anyone who married for a reason less than the purest love was deplorable. Glancing back at Giselle she saw her cousin’s look of pity, but laughed to herself. Don’t feel too bad for me, you’re next.
“Lord Chauncey Evers Drake of London will wed my youngest granddaughter Giselle Norina Damara Marshall.” Giselle tried to take a deep breath but was impeded by her corset. She stepped up beside her fiancé. Lord Chauncey Evers Drake was younger than Sir Atticus – but not by much. He was short and squat, but better groomed than most women.
The party went on and Saoirse tried her best to ignore the leering of Sir Atticus. She thought perhaps some conversation would help pass the time. “So, what do you –”
“Please,” Sir Atticus interrupted in a surprisingly feminine voice, “I would prefer it if you didn’t speak.”
The time passed slowly. Giselle looked as miserable as Saoirse felt. Finally, Saoirse saw Giselle say a few words to Lord Drake and slip away, meeting her eyes as she departed.
“I am sorry to speak,” Saoirse said, not sorry to bother the foul man a bit, “but I am feeling a bit faint and am going to sit for a moment. I will be back shortly.” He nodded wordlessly to her and she made her way to the door behind her that led to the rear corridor. She found Giselle on the other side of it.
“I think I may be sick,” she told her younger cousin.
“Not too sick to run, I hope,” Giselle said and, with a quick look to make sure no one was around, they swiftly made for the outside.