A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)

Chapter 17--Stranded in New Orleans

            “A WOMAN?  You sent a woman?  On my behalf?  Oh hell no!  Ain’t no way I’m paying for that.”  Silas Farthingham was as mad as he had ever been.  If he thought for one moment that he could have gotten away with killing Alfred Barnaby, he would have shot him right between the eyes just to watch him die.  A pity Alfred Barnaby was so well known in this piddling town, he thought glumly.  Damn southerners all to hell, anyway.

            “Silas Farthingham.  You will please remember this is my home,” Alfred rose up from his chair, unafraid of the irate bully before him.  “There are ladies living here in this home; my wife among them.  If you cannot control your temper and your language, I must ask you to leave.”  Alfred walked over to his study door and opened it.  “In fact, I insist upon it.  Please do not return until you have yourself under control.  Do not make me regret accepting you as a client anymore than I already do.”

            Silas gaped like a fish.  If Alfred Barnaby had declared that he had just lain an egg, Silas could not have been anymore astonished.  Left without any recourse, Silas stomped past the attorney with ill grace.  Outside the door he turned and said,  "Looks like you have a pair after all.”

          Alfred watched Silas Farthingham leave with the awareness he had just made a mortal enemy out of his client.

            ***

            “Six days!”  Eleanor Rosenthal shrieked.  “Captain Donegal, I cannot be delayed that long.”  She stomped her tiny foot in frustration.  “I have to get to Fort Randall!”

            Captain Donegal winced.  “Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” Captain Donegal ruefully faced this pint-sized harridan.  “That is as fast as those gears can get here.  They have to be shipped from New York, you know.  There is nothing else I can do.”

            “And you are sure there is no other boat available to take us on to our destination?”

            “None that are owned by Inland Coast Shipping, Mrs. Rosenthal.  Of course, you are free to make other arrangements.  Some of the passengers are doing just that.”

            “Yes, but let me get this straight,”  Her eyes pierced him with a shrewd glare.  “The passengers that make different travel arrangements, do so at their own expense.  Am I correct in assuming that?”

            “Yes Ma’am.  You are correct,” answered Captain Donegal stiffly. 

            How dare this chit of a girl barge in here, into his private office, and verbally attack him like this.  There always has to be one like her on every trip, he grimaced, eyeing the irate young woman in front of him.  She certainly did not look like any Pinkerton agent he had ever seen.  If he hadn’t received the payment for her passage in person, he would never have believed it.  The motto, "We Never Sleep,"  was too well known to doubt her authenicity.

           Agent Rosenthal went right on with her tirade.   “Am I also correct in assuming your company refuses to reimburse us for the portion of the trip we have not yet traveled?”  Eleanor Rosenthal propped her dainty gloved hands on the edge of the scarred desk, and leaned towards Captain Donegal. 

            That worthy captain gazed longingly up at the yellowing, wrinkled, dog-eared map of the world pinned up on the wall above his desk vainly trying to calm himself.  The map had belonged to his father, Captain Perigrin C. Donegal.  His father had passed that map on to the younger Captain Donegal when he retired from Tatterstall, Wesson, and Gorhman, Atlantic Lines, Inc.  Oh, to be free to sail the world on his own ship as his father had, thought Captain Donegal.  No blasted steam engines to deal with.  No prissy, demanding vixens glaring daggers at him because of a situation beyond his control.