Deleted Scenes: Wicked Woman    

 

As many scenes of movies are left on the editing floor, so are scenes from books for various reasons. Sometimes authors cut and tighten to adjust for word count; sometimes scenes are cut because, as much as we love them, they're unnecessary to the story. The following is the original first chapter of Wicked Woman, which was cut for both of those reasons. Regardless, I still like it, and it give a more indepth description of Morgan's circumstances and the budding relationship between Morgan and Ward, when they first met on board ship.

Atlantic Ocean, 1852

Carefully encased in canvas and weighted with holystones, Bartholomew Drumlin’s body lay on a plank precariously balanced on the edge of the Sea Gypsy’s rail.  Morgan Drumlin’s heart jerked as, beside her, in a low, steady voice, Captain Montgomery read a simple service.  A hot wind filled the enormous sails of his clipper ship, blowing it swiftly across the water.

“We commit this body to the deep,” he finished and nodded to the sailors holding the plank.  They tilted it, and Bart’s body slid into the sparkling blue ocean with scarcely a splash to mourn his passing.  Morgan pressed her hand to her mouth to force down a sob.  Poor Bart! she thought, imagining the sea sucking his broken body into its cold bosom.  And then Dear Lord, he can’t be dead!

The captain nodded to his first mate, who barked a dismissal to the crew.  The mourners slipped away, leaving Morgan staring at the ocean, chilled in spite of a blazing sun. 

Captain Montgomery turned to her, bowed, and said in his sea-salt voice,  “You have my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Drumlin.  He was a good man.”

A good man, Morgan thought, fear shooting through her.  Twenty-one years of age and full of vigor, Bart may very well have been a good man, but that scarcely signified now.  By marrying him a short six months after meeting him, she’d forfeited everything: family, friends, wealth.  At the time marrying a sailor had sounded exciting, liberating, promising her freedom from a domineering father and the equally domineering constraints of London society.  Bart had sworn to take her to all manner of exotic ports as soon as he could procure a berth on an American clipper.  Now the only port she’d see was Boston, Massachusetts, an ocean away from her Sussex home. 

She lifted her head to look into the captain’s eyes.  The warmth in those liquid brown depths contrasted sharply with the harsh, edgy lines of his face and his cool, self-assured manner.  No doubt it would unnerve most people, but the combination of rugged strength and gentleness soothed Morgan’s trembling heart.

“Thank you, Captain,” she whispered. 

He hesitated a moment.  “If you’re interested, madam, we have a stateroom available at no extra cost.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Living “between decks” with Bart had been an adventure; without him, the notion of sleeping without him among the rough inhabitants of the hot, fetid compartment sent a shudder down her spine. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said quickly, before misery overwhelmed pride. “I couldn’t, truly.”

“It’s the least I can do.  Your husband assisted us a number of times on this voyage.”

And died while doing so.  No, pride had killed Bart, who, still insecure around his aristocratic wife, had plunged to his death from the top mast after recklessly showing off for her.  What use was pride, after all? “That’s very obliging of you, sir,” she answered.  “Thank you.”

***

No doubt storms at sea were commonplace.  No doubt most passengers  became violently ill during them, Morgan assured herself as she leaned over the bucket to vomit once again.  Her stomach ached fiercely and she wished, common or not, beautifully appointed stateroom or foul smelling steerage, that the ship would please, please stop tossing!   Oh, but for the end of this interminable voyage!  Two more weeks, just two more, she told herself and vomited again.

The queasiness of her stomach expanded to a painful cramping deep down, followed by a sudden wetness between her legs.  Oh Lord, what was that?  Holding tight to the bedrail, she rose, pulled up her skirts and saw blood staining her drawers.  Bart’s  baby—a baby no more.  Tears formed in her eyes, but as she staggered to her footlocker for rags, she couldn’t be certain if the tears were from gratitude or grief.

Two hours later, it was over.  Two days later, Morgan felt well enough, and truly miserable enough, to join Captain Montgomery’s dinner table. 

Biting her cheek, Morgan strode with feigned confidence to the dining saloon, pausing just inside to run her gaze around the room, over mahogany and mirrors, wainscoting, skylights and stained glass windows.  The soft salty fragrance of the ocean wafted through the last, filling the room with the smell of summer.  In the middle of it all sat a large table set with crisp white linen, china and sparkling crystal.  At a marble-topped sideboard Captain Montgomery, dressed impeccably in his pressed blue uniform, poured himself a glass of wine.

After a moment he turned.  “Mrs. Drumlin,” he said in surprise.  “I thought you were my steward.  Have you come to join us for dinner?”

Oh no!  He hadn’t expected her!  But didn’t stateroom passengers customarily dine in the saloon?  Or had he offered the stateroom only as a courtesy and expected her to eat with the steerage passengers?  A sudden wave of longing for Bart washed  over Morgan, compounding a deep, digging loneliness.  She wasn’t used to rejection; an earl’s daughter was accepted everywhere.

Tears welled in her eyes and she folded her arms protectively over her fluttering heart.  “If—if that’s acceptable.”

His kind eyes peered at her a moment before he nodded.  “I had expected you, madam.  May I offer you a glass of wine?”

Relieved, she blinked back her tears, then fiercely reproached herself for allowing them. Tears were only for death or desperation.  She’d wept two days for Bart, and she didn’t face true desperation—yet. “Yes, please,” she answered, stepping forward.

After pouring her a glass, the captain crossed the room to hand it to her.  She took a sip, then smiling as brightly as she could, commented,  “It’s good.”

A little smile walked across his face, bringing a sparkle to his eyes and  temporarily driving out the aching in her chest.  “I aim to please.” 

“I doubt you disappoint very often, sir.” 

“Rarely, madam,” he said dryly,  “although I suspect few were pleased these last two days.  We avoided the worst of the storm, but summer is hurricane season in the Atlantic.  We could not avoid it completely.  How did you fare?”

Remembering her vomiting, she grimaced but said politely,  “Well enough.”

“You hesitate.  Is this your first crossing?”

“And my last, I hope,” she said ruefully.

His smile broadened and a dimple appeared in his left cheek, creating the oddest  fluttering in her belly.  “You ought not let a little greenness prevent you from ocean travel.  It passes.  On my first voyage I was sick for two weeks.”

Oh, but how that smile melted his perpetual air of gravity!  Suddenly Captain Montgomery appeared not as a prematurely-aging, weather-beaten sea captain in his late thirties, but as a tanned, healthy man in his mid-twenties. 

The captain’s gaze shifted suddenly, focusing over her shoulder.  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Morris!” he said graciously, his smile fading.  Lightly taking Morgan’s elbow, he turned her to meet his guests. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Morris.  May I present Mrs. Drumlin, or have you met already?”

At dinner the steward seated Morgan between the exceedingly proper—and thus, exceedingly dull—Mr. Morris, and a Mr. Weatherly from Philadelphia, a widower in his late sixties.  Weatherly’s clothes spoke of wealth, and his speech was disdainful enough to identify him as part of America’s upper class.  Bolstered by an indecent amount of wine, Morgan attempted a discreet flirtation, lowering her lids when he spoke, as if she couldn’t bear to look such a fascinating man in the eye.  He responded by puffing himself up and bragging about his wealth.

New-found hope flickered in Morgan’s heart.  Might she have found a solution to her situation?  Weatherly was certainly not the sort of husband a nineteen-year old girl dreamed of, but what choice had she?  Once she’d told Amy, Lady Amelia Margaret Cunningham, best of all friends, that a London Season was little more than casting meat in a yard to see which dog would win the choicest piece.  But now, widowed and impoverished, Morgan employed every art she’d learned during her one brief season to secure Weatherly’s interest. 

A lull came in the dinner conversation. Captain Montgomery asked,  “Mrs. Drumlin, what are your plans once we arrive in Boston?  Have you family there?”

Was the line between his brows a scowl or a concerned frown?  No doubt he’d didn’t approve of her flirtation.  “No, sir.  I am, “ she said, lowering her lids and letting her voice catch as she glanced at Mr. Weatherly, “alone now.”

“Then you may require employment,”  the captain returned.  His frown deepened to a scowl sharp enough to frighten innocent maidens and small children.  Morgan was no longer either.  “I live in Boston,” he continued.  “If you wish, I shall assist you in securing a position.”

A position?  As what, a companion?  A governess?  She’d be dismissed within a week.  Her painting was barely passable, her musical abilities worse.   Nor had Father ever permitted her an academic education.  He’d expected her to marry.  Well she had, and badly too.

No, the only work she was suited for would be dreadfully difficult and quite possibly beyond her abilities.  What did she know about factory work or the duties of a scullery maid?  She’d lose such a job in a fortnight’s time, and poor women, she thought with a rush of fear, poor women were often compelled to settle for more dangerous means of support. 

“Thank you, sir.  I shall give it all due consideration,”

Mr. Weatherly, too, offered his assistance .  “Anything that I can do, Mrs. Drumlin, to ease your condition, I offer with my greatest admiration.”  What exactly that meant Morgan had no notion, but it was very pretty.  By summoning up embarrassing thoughts of being locked naked outside of her stateroom, she managed a blush. Mr. Weatherly reacted like—well like a dog to meat, really—patting her hand gently and apologizing in a low voice.  He meant nothing except the most honorable by the comment.

She smiled back—slightly.  She must restrain her customary levity.  Jokes, large smiles, and loud laughter would not impress Weatherly, who appeared to prefer demure women.  She must make quite certain he preferred her. 

***

A warm breeze ruffled Ward Montgomery’s hair as he watched the approach of Boston Harbor—the last time he’d see such a sight as captain of the Sea Gypsy.  After years of traveling the world, working to re-establish the shipping business his father had ruined, he would now conduct all transactions from land, trusting his captains to command his ships.  A holystone settling in his chest, Ward turned his back on scene.  He loved the sea with his whole heart, but the time had arrived to put duty to his family, his name, first.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Ward proceeded to Mrs. Drumlin’s cabin.   All that remained in his quest to return the Montgomery name to its rightful place in society was to choose a wife.  A picture of a Mrs. Drumlin’s sea-green eyes and her hair, the color of rosewood, rose in front of his face.  Not, he told himself firmly, a vivacious sailor’s widow, but a proper Boston woman of impeccable lineage, one interested enough in wealth to overlook his harsh, hawk’s face.

Besides, Mrs. Drumlin had already promised herself to Weatherly.

Ward shook his head in disgust.  Did the man have any notion what he was about? Weatherly treated Mrs. sDrumlin like a crystal figurine, apparently taking her slight stature as a sign of female frailty, accepting her wide-eyed innocence and blushing modesty as fact.  Ward didn’t believe it for an instant.  Before Drumlin’s death he’d seen her soft mouth spread into huge, humor-filled grin, and her full-throated laughter was about as gentle as ocean surf crashing against a pier during a hurricane.  Far from being frail, Mrs. Drumlin was vibrant, energetic, spirited.   A few hours alone with her would give Weatherly heart palpitations, a few months would see him dead.

Setting his teeth, Ward knocked on Mrs. Drumlin’s door.  When she opened it, he bowed and withdrew several silver coins from his pocket.  “Mrs. Drumlin.  Your husband offered his services to us several times during the voyage.  I’ve brought you compensation,” he said, handing it to her.

“But—the stateroom—” she said, and frowned at the money before raising her head to hold his gaze.  “I thought that was compensation.” 

“Not quite enough, madam.”  He hesitated.  Her future was none of his business. Yet for all her ploys, his heart still went out to her, a lone, penniless woman in a strange land.  Could he blame her for trying to hook a rich husband?  “I’ve heard of your recent engagement.  I must felicitate you.”

Morgan swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.  The cool expression on Captain Montgomery’s face warned her that he truly didn’t felicitate her.  No doubt he was appalled.  That made two of them.  “Thank you.”

”Will you be in Boston long?” he asked.

“For a few weeks, visiting Charles’ sister. Then we travel to his home in Philadelphia.”

“I see.  Will you marry first?”

She nodded.  “Traveling will be easier as a married couple.”

“Of course.”  Captain Montgomery hesitated, as if making a difficult decision.  Rubbing his neck, he narrowed his eyes.  “Mrs. Drumlin, my offer to assist you in finding employment still stands. Should you change your mind, you may contact me at my counting room at the end of Long Wharf.”

“Why,” she said carefully,  “thank you, sir. I believe my marriage negates that necessity, but I shall remember your offer.”

She ought to do more than remember it.  She ought to follow him to his office, take whatever respectable employment he offered, and escape this marriage.  But for the first time in Morgan’s life courage failed her.

Captain Montgomery nodded and offered her his hand in farewell.  Hesitantly—she’d been packing and wore no gloves—she took it.  An odd shudder of delight flittered over her nerves.  For a moment his eyes held hers and she thought she detected a touch of admiration before they filled with regret. 

“Good-bye, Mrs. Drumlin.  Good luck in your marriage.”

“And in your future voyages, sir.”

Pain flashed through his eyes. Odd, he seemed to love his job. “Thank you, madam.  Doubtless your luck will keep me from harm’s way.”