location thirty-five miles south of Savannah was too isolated, that he would have to depend on slaves because skilled labor would be impossible to come by. But Simon had no intention of building a shipyard on human misery. Instead, he traveled to New York and Boston, where he scoured the shipyards owned by some of the same men who had laughed at him.
There, Simon found freed slaves and experienced craftsmen, many of them immigrants from the shipyards of Scotland and Holland, family men who were disillusioned with the crowded conditions of cities and wanted something better for their children. Simon told them about Cape Crosse with its schoolhouse and three churches. He told them of the new white frame houses that were sitting empty, waiting for families to fill them. And, since they loved ships, he also told them of the kinds of vessels he and Benjamin Peale planned to build. Simon Copeland found his workers.
He remembered how delighted Ben had been at his first sight of Cape Crosse. Damn, he missed him! Simon's fingers fondly stroked the carved walnut as he thought of his former partner sitting at this same desk. Simon was a meticulous man, but he smiled as he recalled Ben's chaotic work habits: rumpled papers scattered haphazardly across the polished top, books strewn about this same room, contracts representing hundreds of pounds stuffed into an empty ale mug on the mantel. Perhaps it was just as well that he and Ben had had an ocean separating them; it was probably the secret of their successful partnership. Since the early years, they had seldom seen each other. Still, it had pleased Simon as he sat in his orderly office in Cape Crosse to think of Benjamin here, running the British branch of the company amidst the cheery chaos that always surrounded him.
Since Ben had died eight months ago, Simon had increasingly come to realize how much he had relied on his partner's good sense. It wasn't happenstance that Simon had purchased the Peales' Northridge Square town house. Benjamin's widow, Constance, who now owned half the company, had decided to remain at her country estate in Sussex during her year of deep mourning. Since she only planned to visit London infrequently as her business affairs dictated, she had sold the elegant Northridge Square home to Simon and purchased a smaller house nearby. He had been here four months now, and it probably would be twice that long before he could return to Cape Crosse. Somehow it had comforted Simon to be here among Benjamin's things as he sorted out the affairs of the English shipyard.
If only he could turn the Cape Crosse yard over to Quinn and stay in England himself. Somehow he had hoped…
He frowned, his dark brows almost meeting in the middle. Damnation! He was going to have to do something about his son. Almost twenty-eight and still as wild as he'd been as a boy.
Quinn knew all there was to know about building ships; he understood the intricacies of running Copeland and Peale. How could he be so impractical with all his talk of experimentation? He wanted to sink thousands of dollars into the development of a totally new hull shape. Copeland and Peale was a conservative shipbuilder, not some shoddy organization that would fall in with any foolhardy scheme.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to summon Quinn from Cape Crosse three months before. His son had now managed to swing Constance over to his side. That could present a problem, since she still controlled half the company. Why isn't Quinn like other men's sons, Simon thought bitterly-obedient, respectful of his father?
His thoughts were interrupted as the study door flew open and the subject of his ruminations strode in. At first glance the resemblance between the two men was striking; however, a closer scrutiny revealed that the likeness was more of manner than physical appearance.
At fifty, Simon's dark hair was threaded with silver, but he was still a handsome man, broad-shouldered and muscular with biting blue eyes. Quinn was the larger and darker of the two. His cheekbones were higher and more defined, but the two men had the same strong brow and bold nose.
'Don't you ever knock?' Simon grumbled.
Quinn lit a thin cheroot and crossed to the fireplace. 'There's no need for us to stand on ceremony, is there, Simon?' He leaned gracefully against the marble mantel and crossed one booted ankle over the other.
'So'-Simon regarded his tall, handsome son critically-'the prodigal son returns. Don't you think it was a bit extravagant to take private rooms for yourself when you could have stayed here?'
This was an old argument between them. Over the years Quinn had prudently invested his wages. He had long been financially independent of his father, a fact that galled Simon.
'It's my money, Simon, as you well know. Besides, don't you think that would be rather hypocritical, considering all of our differences?'
'Our differences, as you call them, are of your making, not mine,' the older man barked angrily.
'Our differences, Simon, started before I was old enough to cause them.'
Simon gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and glared at his son. Their eyes locked in silent combat, punctuated only by the ticking of the gilded clock on the mantel. Abruptly Simon slumped back in his chair, impatiently running his fingers through his black hair.
'If I had known you were coming, I would have made arrangements for Constance to be here,' he said gruffly. 'I know how you enjoy her company.'
At the thought of Constance, Quinn relaxed. He crossed to a leather chair angled near the walnut desk. 'The fair Constance. Now, there's a woman!' He settled himself comfortably in the chair and looked significantly at his father. 'She's bright, vibrant.'
'Bright? How can you say that? She's the most featherbrained woman I've ever met, and she insists on meddling in company affairs.'
Quinn regarded his father evenly. 'She's half owner of Copeland and Peale now, as well as being an admirable woman. Don't be so quick to dismiss her opinions. She may be flighty, but she's not stupid.'
'She's a meddler and knows nothing of the business!' Simon exclaimed, rising from his chair and stalking across the room.
'She was married to your partner for twenty-one years,' Quinn reminded him.
'Yes, and Ben paid too much attention to her crazy ideas.'
'Which crazy ideas?' Quinn asked coolly. 'Building a totally new hull?' He walked to the fireplace and flicked the ash from his cheroot onto the grate. 'You're a fool, Simon. You know the rumors about the work at Smith and Damon in New York.'
'A fool, am I!' Simon shot back. 'Damn it, Quinn, we've been through this a hundred times. A ship without her breadth well forward in the beam will founder. A shipbuilder doesn't go against the natural order of things, and you only have to look at nature to see the error of your concept. There's hardly a species of fish that isn't largest near the head, forward of its center.'
'Fish are fish, Simon, and ships are ships. Fish exist in only one element, the sea. And at the depths they swim, the sea is calm. Ships must contend with two elements, wind and sea, and they're both unpredictable. You're so wrong, Simon,' Quinn said, his eyes glittering harshly, 'but then you always have believed in your own infallibility.'
Simon looked at his son sadly, then walked over to the desk and settled himself again in the chair. He spoke softly. 'Can't we stop this endless bickering?'
Quinn's smile was chilling; it never reached his eyes. 'As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I've done something for you, something you've been asking me to do for a long time.'
Simon stared at Quinn quizzically, not missing the grim line of his son's jaw. 'Oh?'
'Yes, I've taken your advice. Wait here. I have a surprise for you.'
Quinn left the room hastily and returned moments later with an apprehensive Noelle in tow. Simon gazed incredulously at the pitifully wasted creature decked out in scarlet rouge and a dirty gown. It was impossible! He had brought a vulgar trollop into his father's house.
Simon's voice was deadly. 'What is the meaning of this?'
Eyes gleaming triumphantly, Quinn replied, 'I'd like you to meet my wife. We were married last night.'
The older man was speechless, his face a mask of astonishment as he took in the outrageous carrot thatch.
'The ceremony was unorthodox, but definitely legal.' Quinn watched his father closely, savoring each moment of his revenge. 'Tom Sully was the witness.'
Outraged, Simon leaped from his chair, his jaw tightly clenched. 'If this is your idea of a joke-'
'Oh, it's no joke,' Quinn interrupted smoothly. 'Remember, Simon, you were the one who wanted me to marry. You wanted me to settle down, become respectable… be just as conservative and stodgy as you are.' His voice
