AGAINST THE TIDE

A NOVEL

Bethany House Publishers

CHAPTER 1

Fifteen years later, 1891The Boston Navy Yard

It looks like the Russian navy has just launched a new gunship,"Lydia said.

It was hard to tell from the grainy photograph, but the shiplooked different from the others reported in the Russian newspapers.Lydia rose from her desk and walked across the office toshow the newspaper to Willis, whose encyclopedic memory ofwarships was astounding. She only hoped he would be willing tohelp her. She had been working at the research wing of the UnitedStates Navy for more than four years, but it still irked Willis thata woman had been hired for this sort of work.

Lydia handed Willis a magnifying glass to better scrutinize thephotograph. "I don't remember the Russians ever having a rotatinggun turret," she said, "but it looks like they have one, don'tyou think?"

Willis Colburn was so thin it looked possible to shred cheeseoff the blades of his cheekbones. He pushed his spectacles higheras he studied the picture. "You know, Lydia, you are supposed tobe the expert on Russian," he said pointedly.

Actually, Lydia was the expert on Russian, Greek, Turkish,Italian, Albanian, and Croatian. Her job was to scan journals,technical reports, and anything else sent from southern Europein search of innovations in ship design. When she first saw the jobadvertisement looking for someone with multiple language skillsand an intimate knowledge of ships, she nearly levitated withexcitement. Her first two years after leaving the orphanage weredifficult, laboring at the fish canneries and packing tins with saltedmackerel until she couldn't see straight. It was monotonous, smellywork, and at the end of the week she was barely able to pay the renton a room in a boardinghouse, which was why she was so eager toland the job at the Navy Yard. The position called for someone whocould read foreign documents and make sense of developmentsin ship design.

Lydia remembered everything about the sails, tack, and riggingof fishing boats, but when she first saw the imposing battle frigatesin the Navy Yard, she wondered if she had overestimated herknowledge of ships.

Admiral Fontaine did not seem to care. A ruggedly attractive manwho seemed far too young to have attained the status of admiral,he merely shrugged. "I can teach you the particulars of warshipseasier than I can train someone in half a dozen languages," he hadsaid. "You are hired."

Who could have believed it? The little girl from Greece who grewup on rickety fishing boats and never had a decent pair of shoeswas now a trusted assistant to an admiral in the United States Navy.Each day she walked past acres of towering ships docked in theNavy Yard before reporting to work. The office had a view overthe dry docks where navy cruisers and battleships were overhauledand refitted for service.

And Lydia knew her job was vitally important. At the end ofthe Civil War in 1865, funding for the U.S. Navy had been slashedto the bone as resources were funneled to the army for a massivewestward expansion. Other than providing basic coverageof domestic ports, the government lost interest in maintaining anavy. In the midst of one of the greatest technological booms inhistory, the U.S. Navy became stagnant while the maritime nationsof Europe poured funding into ironclads, steamers, torpedoes, andlong-range artillery.

It was only after an embarrassing incident when the UnitedStates was forced to back down from the Chilean navy that Congresswas driven to act. A bureau to collect intelligence on foreignnaval technology was created. Naval attachés were sent all acrossEurope to research shipbuilding technology. Most of the researchwas aboveboard, but some of it was clandestinely gathered. Wheneverthose officers found printed material of interest, they sent ithome to Admiral Fontaine for a complete translation into English.Each week Lydia received stacks of newspaper clippings, productmanuals, and technical journals. She translated, cross-referenced,and indexed every scrap of it.

Watching and trying to play catch-up with the great maritimepowers was hardly the way to achieve naval superiority, but atleast it provided funding for the team of translators sitting directlyoutside Admiral Fontaine's office.

"This Russian turret looks a bit like what the British use, don'tyou think?" Lydia asked Willis, turning the page of the pamphletto show him the rest of the article, but he cringed and clasped bothhands to his forehead.

"Lydia, please. The noise of that paper crackling is like knivesacross my skin." Yesterday the scent of the juice she had beendrinking made him dizzy, and last week he complained that theweight of the air was making him suffer a rash. Yet when AdmiralFontaine was in the room, Willis always seemed to be as hardy asa mountain goat.

Lydia lowered the tone of her voice, which often placated Willis,and tried again. "Is this turret the same as what the British have,or is it something entirely new?"

"It is not new," Karl Olavstad said from his desk on the oppositeside of the office. "The Norwegians have had such a turret for atleast three years."

Karl handled the translation work from northern Europe andScandinavia, while a young man named Jacob Frankenberg trackedwestern European developments. Willis was a naval historian fromLondon, and his command of shipbuilding throughout the worldwas unparalleled. He kept track of developments in the Britishnavy and provided insight for everything the team of translatorsbrought to him.

"The Norwegians copied it from the British," Willis said in atired voice. "The Norwegian navy would sink to the bottom of thesea if they could not emulate the British."

Lydia propped her hip against the side of Willis's desk, eagerto see how Karl would respond to the salvo. When she first startedwork at the Navy Yard, the jousting between her officemates hadconfused and alarmed her. At the Crakken Orphanage when disagreementsbroke out among the children, Lydia ran for cover inthe broom closet, but she soon learned Karl and Willis enjoyedmatching wits.

"Let us hope the Norwegians don't start emulating British cuisine,"Karl said. "They would perish from the sheer monotony ofboiled cabbage, boiled peas, and boiled beef."

From his desk beside the window overlooking the dry docks,Jacob set down his German newspaper and joined the fray. "Don'tforget boiled tongue," he said with a shudder. "The only time Willisinvited me to his home, his wife served boiled tongue and pickledonions. I had only been in this country two weeks, and it almostsent me rushing back home to Salzburg."

Lydia knew it would never happen. Every person in this officewas an immigrant, and yet each of them had already planted rootsas tenacious as those of a mighty oak tree into the rich Boston soil.Was it because she had never had a place to call home that Lydiawas so fiercely loyal to Boston and her employment at the NavyYard? Her respect for Admiral Fontaine certainly had something todo with her pride in working here, but it was more than that. Afteryears of anxiety and loneliness, first at the orphanage and then atthe canneries, she had at last found a sense of belonging withinthe bustling harbor of the Navy Yard. Jacob, Karl, and even themaddening Willis were like a family to her, and she thrived amidsttheir unconventional friendship.

"What is the proper name of this gun turret?" she asked Willis."And can you tell me if the gun is smooth-bore or rifled?"

Willis pinched the skin at the top of his nose. "Just tell theadmiral it is a Hotchkiss quick-firing gun, modified for shipboarduse. That will be adequate for his purposes."

Lydia fidgeted. She didn't want her reports to be merely adequate;she wanted them flawless. The report was due by the end ofthe day, and she needed Willis to cooperate. His teacup was empty,and she knew how much the man adored his Earl Grey blend.

"How about I brew you another cup of tea?" she asked Willis."By the time I have the water heated, perhaps you can have a listfor me of every British and Norwegian ship with the same typeof Hotchkiss gun?"

"Deal," Willis agreed, as she knew he would. The office had acoal-heated burner in the corner of the room, which helped satisfyWillis's roaring dependency on Earl Grey tea. Lydia opened thetrapdoor of the heater and added a few more coals.

"You could afford to ease up a bit, Lydia," Jacob said. "Notevery report needs to be footnoted, cross-referenced, and triple-checked.You'll make the rest of us look bad. Besides, maybe theadmiral fancies a girl who can relax for once."

Heat flooded her cheeks. That was the second time this monthJacob teased her about liking Admiral Fontaine a little too much.Which was ridiculous. "Jacob, your adolescent imagination is runningaway again."

"Come on, Lydia. Plenty of girls are carrying a torch for AdmiralFontaine," Jacob said. "The lonely widower. Powerful. Rich as sin.Half the girls in Boston are crying into their pillows over him."

She closed the door of the burner with a clang. Okay, maybeshe had a tiny case of hero-worship for the admiral, but never oncehad she toyed with any ridiculous fantasies. Besides, the admiral'soffice was directly behind her, and for all she knew, he could belistening to every word. "First of all," she said tightly, "I never cry.Ever. And I haven't prepared my reports for the admiral with anymore care than the rest of you."

Karl did not even lift his nose from where it was buried in theopen pages of a Norwegian newspaper, but his voice was pointed."You learned Albanian for him."

Jacob pounced on the opening. "Yeah, Lydia, you learned Albanianfor him!"

She gritted her teeth. She hadn't learned Albanian for the admiral;she did it because they had a language deficit in the officeand she was the one most likely to quickly master the language. Itdidn't mean she carried a torch for the admiral, and she couldn'tafford to let this sort of talk get out of hand. She set the water inthe kettle to heat, then moved to stand beside Jacob's desk. "Please,please don't tease me about this," she said, her voice uncharacteristicallyserious. "You don't know how hard it is for a woman tofind professional employment, and any whiff of gossip could costme my job. Can you understand that?"

Jacob blanched. He didn't have a mean bone in his scrawny bodyand never considered what his teasing could do to her. "Okay, sorry,Lydia," he quickly agreed, pushing his round spectacles higher upon his nose. "I'm sorry if I said anything—you know—stupid."

Now Lydia felt guilty for scolding. "No man who reads sixlanguages is stupid." She gave him a cuff on the arm. "You idiot."

She returned to tend to the teakettle and added more water."Make a whole pot, please," Karl said. "The Adonis is comingthis afternoon, and you know how surly the admiral is after thosemeetings."

Her hands froze on the kettle. It was never a good thing whenthat man came to see the admiral.

His name was Lieutenant Alexander Banebridge, but Karl haddubbed him "The Adonis" because of the man's ridiculous beauty.None of them understood his mysterious business at the NavyYard, but after each visit, the admiral was always grim and pensive.Moody, even. Anyone who caused the famously even-temperedAdmiral Fontaine to become surly was someone Lydia instinctivelymistrusted.

Lydia suspected Lieutenant Banebridge might be one of theforeign attachés funneling them reports about overseas ships, butthere was no way for her to know. The man never said a singleword to her. He merely breezed into the admiral's office and left apall behind him with each meeting.

She couldn't afford to worry about the admiral's mysteriousvisitor. After setting the kettle over the burner, she opened thecanister of tea and let the scent soothe her. If she lived to be onehundred, she would always love the mild scent of Earl Grey tea.Was it because it reminded her of the office? For the first time inher life, she had a job she loved and earned a respectable salarythat allowed her to afford a safe apartment of her very own. Thatapartment had a solid floor, a ceiling that did not leak, and allowedher to fall asleep without fear of vicious children stealing her shoesif she took them off before going to bed.

The door of the office flew open, banging against the wall witha crash. Lydia was stunned to see Big John, the man who ownedthe coffeehouse on the ground floor of the building where shelived. His face was flushed, and he was barely able to get enoughair into his lungs.

"Lydia, you are being evicted," he said on a ragged breath.

Lydia dropped the canister, scattering loose tea leaves across thefloor. "What?" The word escaped from her throat in an ungainlyscreech.

"Workmen just arrived," he said. "They started putting yourfurniture on the street outside the building. I told them they can'tevict you yet, but they started anyway."

"They can't do this! I have papers saying I can stay. AdmiralFontaine drew them up himself." Panic flooded her at the thoughtof losing her home. It was more than mere sentimentality tyingher to her modest fourth-floor apartment in a building improbablynamed the Laughing Dragon. That apartment was her sanctuary,the first home in her entire life where Lydia felt completelysafe.

She needed to get home right away. "Tell the admiral what ishappening," she called to Jacob as she raced out the door, thenclattered down the office staircase and into the street. She hauledup her skirts and ran as if her life depended on it ... which it ratherdid. Since the morning she left the orphanage, she had devotedevery hour of her day to earning enough money to create a stablehome for herself. Now that she finally had it, she would battle allthe plagues of Egypt to keep it.
(Continues...)Excerpted from AGAINST THE TIDE by Elizabeth Camden. Copyright © 2012 Dorothy Mays. Excerpted by permission of Bethany House Publishers.
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