P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

He shrugged. “I fear I don’t have much more to tell you. I did, of course, make certain that Garrett received a ‘message’ designed to impress upon him that he should refrain from such reprehensible actions in the future.”

“You avenged my attack?” Charlotte smiled tremulously at him, placing a hand on his sleeve. “You are such an honorable man.”

Jordan thought Seavey might have looked slightly abashed at her reaction.

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Jesse delivered Charlotte to my hotel suite two days before the maiden voyage of the Henrietta Dale . While I continued to oversee last-minute details regarding the seaworthiness of the ship and the accommodations for my passengers, I paid Willoughby handsomely to see to the treatment of her injuries. Accordingly, we set sail early on the morning of August 5 for Victoria, with a return trip planned for that evening.”

“Whoa, wait,” Jordan said, startled. “You said a minute ago that you kept Charlotte in the hotel until you left on a trip, at which time you took her with you. Are you telling me that Charlotte was aboard the Henrietta Dale when she ran aground?”

“That’s precisely what I am telling you,” Seavey said. “Charlotte served as chef for the opium smokers in my great cabin. It worked out well for all concerned, in my opinion. I needed a beautiful and charming chef to help my passengers enjoy their experiences with my pipes, and Charlotte needed a place away from the waterfront to heal.”

Hattie gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, her expression stricken. “ What? ”

“Oh, dear,” Charlotte murmured, looking apprehensive.

Seavey frowned. “You needn’t be worried, my dear, that Charlotte was in any way treated poorly. Indeed, she was working in luxurious surroundings, handling beautifully designed cloisonné enamel boxes, intricately carved jade pipes … and, of course, serving a number of Port Chatham’s societal elite.”

“But to expose her to such wanton activities …” Hattie’s voice trailed away.

“Truly, I thought you knew, my dear. Charlotte came under my protection from the time she was beaten until the shipwreck. I had no expectation that Garrett would heed my threats to leave her alone; therefore, the only logical method of concealing her and keeping her away from him was to bring her on board.”

“You thought the further ruination of an innocent such as Charlotte by introducing her to an opium den was preferable to leaving her under guard in your hotel?” Frank asked, his expression incredulous.

“My bodyguards accompany me at all times,” Michael snapped, losing patience. “Forgive me, but I didn’t trust any of my other men to keep her safe. Would you have had me put her at further risk? All because of the possibility that she would be exposed to a few upper-crust guests who smoked a drug that was, may I remind you, legal at that time? In luxurious surroundings, rather than in the squalor of a common opium den? Good God, man! It’s not as if I forced her to smoke the stuff!”

“Frank, please,” Charlotte chided softly. She fidgeted in her chair. “The decision was not Michael’s alone—I asked to come along. I knew Jesse would be on board, and I … well, I felt comforted by that knowledge. Jesse had become a dear friend, and I was petrified that Garrett would make another attempt on me the minute Jesse and Michael left town.”

“Well, I’m confused,” Jordan said. “I have a list of the survivors of the shipwreck, and, Charlotte, your name wasn’t on it. I thought you didn’t die until a year or two after the shipwreck.”

“That’s correct,” Charlotte replied. “I was murdered on the waterfront approximately a year later, in an unrelated incident.” She shook her head, folding her hands in her lap and refusing to meet Hattie’s eyes. “You must understand. By the time I was rescued, I knew that Jesse was dead, and I had no idea what had happened to Michael or his bodyguards. I had to protect myself from Garrett, and the only way I knew how was to make him think I had gone down with the ship as well. When I saw Eleanor’s reporters lurking about …” She looked at Jordan. “The reason you didn’t see my name among the survivors is that I gave the authorities a false name.”

“Dear God, Charlotte.” Hattie wrung her hands, her expression distraught. “Why haven’t you told us about this before now?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think any less of me than you already do,” her sister admitted softly. “I knew you disapproved of smoking opium, and that you didn’t want to hear that I might have been pulled into that culture by Jesse. And to have been a chef for Michael … Well, I thought you’d blame him even more than you already did.”

“So let me get this straight,” Jordan interposed, before the conversation devolved any further. “Charlotte, you’re telling me that you were on board the night the Henrietta Dale ran aground, and that you witnessed the entire incident, including the attempted rescue and the sinking of the ship?”

“Yes.” Charlotte was silent, her gaze turning inward as she appeared to remember that night. “I was scraping out one of the pipes—the one carved from redwood, do you remember, Michael? It was so beautiful …”

“Yes, I recall it quite clearly,” he replied gently.

“Michael spared no expense, you know, to provide his customers with an experience worthy of royalty. I was quite honored to be asked to serve as his chef,” she assured Hattie.

Hattie frowned, saying nothing.

“Go on,” Jordan urged.

Charlotte was trembling. “I was in the process of slicing a small wedge from a cake of chandu, to place in the pipe for Jesse, when we felt the most terrible jolt …”

The Rescue

Dungeness Spit

August 5, 1893, 11 P.M.

FLUNG against the wall, Charlotte dropped the silver scraper and the pipe. Her cabin mates, reclined on velvet settees, were thrown to the floor.

She heard a sharp crack from overhead. A huge wooden mast plunged through the skylight, shattering it. Shards of glass rained down on her. The floor dropped from under her. Water rushed into the great cabin, soaking her satin slippers and the hem of her gown.

Someone scrambled past her, yelling, running for the door. Jesse was no longer beside her. Dropping to her knees, she attempted to shove debris aside. She strained to see through the gloom and layers of opium smoke. Where was Jesse? Where were the others?

“Someone, please help!” she cried, her voice a high, thin wail, but no one answered.

The floor shifted again beneath her, water sloshing against the velvet settee. At the other end of the room, she glimpsed a body floating in the debris-filled seawater. She struggled to her feet and waded toward it.

The floor canted sharply, throwing her against the mirrored wall. She heard terrified shouts from above as something crashed onto the deck. Her knees suddenly felt cold, and looking down, she realized the chilly water had risen to her thighs.

“Ahoy, down there!” a voice shouted.

“Help!” she screamed.

A head poked through the skylight, barely discernible. “Miss? Are you hurt?”

“No, but I fear the others are. There’s someone just over there …” She tried to wade through the water, to no avail. “You must help us!”

He angled his head, staring silently for a brief moment in the direction she pointed. “Come, miss,” he finally said, his tone quieter. “There’s nothing we can do to help him.”

“ No! He’s just unconscious. He’ll be fine once we get him out from under the mast—”