This Loving Torment

by Valerie Sherwood

  Charity wished she could meet him, but there was always a crowd about him. A planter from Tidewater, Virginia, and his family were aboard. They were returning from a visit with New York relatives, and the planter’s wife and well-dressed daughters were always interfering with Charity’s view of that silver-trimmed blue coat. These fortunate women swept about him in their big skirts, flirting their fans. Sometimes he was merrily allowed to catch them as they “lost their footing” from the roll of the ship, and giggling, lingered a moment too long in his arresting arms.

  On inquiry Charity learned that the blue-clad gentleman was a wealthy planter from Carolina named Alan Bellingham. The name had a pleasant ring. To her disappointment, she learned that he and the Virginians took their meals in the captain’s cabin while the rest of the passengers ate in a common room.

  “He’s married,” Helga told her slyly, when she caught Charity gazing at the man she had pointed out earlier. “But then ain’t all the best ones married?” She nudged Charity with her elbow and Charity turned away from Helga’s coarse laugh. Whether he was married or single, it wasn’t likely she’d meet the handsome Mr. Bellingham.

  All through dinner that night Helga flirted aggressively with a little balding fellow whose wife was too seasick to come to table. Charity felt rather depressed watching Helga move her big breasts and shoulders expressively under her bright Turkey-red shawl. Across from her the wispy little man in his dapper clothes could hardly keep his eyes from Helga’s breasts. Beside Charity, a nervous young fellow with a tic tittered at the sight and edged closer, pressing his leg against Charity’s.

  Charity stiffened and drew away. She might not be good enough for the captain’s cabin, but she was certainly better than the present assemblage.

  Feeling somewhat affronted, she went up on deck and strolled about for a while, enjoying the night air until it became too cool, for she did not own a shawl. When she returned to her cabin, however, she put her hand on the door and stopped.

  From within came a woman’s low giggling laughter, a man’s mumbled words. Helga was entertaining.

  Charity frowned and hesitated. It was cold on deck and she had nowhere to go, but if what was going on inside the cabin was what she thought was going on there, she had no desire to open the door. Back upstairs she went, to spend two shivering hours pacing about the windy deck. When she came down again, Helga was alone and apparently asleep. The next morning Helga slept late, but woke as Charity rose and said in a sleepy voice, “Take my red shawl if you’re going on deck. It’s breezy there.”

  Assuming that the offer was Helga’s way of saying “thank you” for not being interrupted last night, Charity wrapped the red shawl around her and went up on deck. A lowering day it was, too, with gray skies clouding up for a squall and the sea air damp and cutting. There were a number of passengers, about and she spied Alan Bellingham surrounded by the planter’s family, at one end of the ship. Deliberately, she chose the other end of the vessel for her stroll—not so very great a distance since the Marybella was not a large ship.

  She was standing by the rail, thinking rather gloomily of Ben and of Rachel, when she heard behind her a bellow of rage.

  “You there! You with your yellow hair and red shawl!”

  So fierce was the tone that Charity whirled about. Bearing down on her with a rolling gait was a large woman dressed in a flounced tan cambric dress. Her eyes were dark and mean. Every hair on her head seemed to quiver with anger. “Don’t look so innocent,” roared the woman. “I heard all about you, I did!”

  With horror Charity saw that a long leather strap swung in the woman’s big hand. As Charity backed away, she came up sharply against the rail.

  In her surge forward, the big woman never faltered. “You’ve been with my husband, you trollop!” she boomed. “And I aim to stripe your pretty hide for you!”

  “Your husband?” cried Charity, finding her voice. “I don’t even know your husband!”

  “Not with his clothes on perhaps, but without ’em you’re well acquainted!” the woman snarled, and reached out and snatched the red shawl from Charity’s shoulders.

  “You’re mad,” gasped Charity, making a grab for the shawl which, after all, didn’t belong to her. “Your husband will tell you he doesn’t know me. Ask him!”

  “He’s a liar,” said the big woman imperturbably and raised her arm. “Doesn’t tell nothing but lies.” She brought her arm down and the leather strap struck Charity hard across her shoulder, almost bringing her to her knees. As she reeled against the ship’s rail, she realized that, across the deck, a horrified knot of people were riveted, watching. The woman’s arm raised again, and Charity saw a man in a blue coat detach himself from the group to run toward her. She screamed and tried to dodge the next blow but the strap struck her savagely full across her back just as the ship rolled. She felt a lashing pain, heard a ripping sound and plummeted to her face on the deck.

  “Dirty hussy!” screamed the big woman in fury. “I’ll teach you to lie with my husband!”

  Charity moaned and felt the heavy strap graze her back again, before the man who had run forward was able to grab her assailant’s arm. For a moment they struggled there—the big woman in tan flounces and the big man in the blue coat. Then the strap was in the man’s possession and the woman fell back against the rail, almost sobbing with rage.

  “Ye’ve got naught to do with this, Mr. Bellingham!” she cried, her face convulsed with fury. “Tis between me and this yellow-haired chit here, who lured my husband to her bed, she did!”

  By now the rest of the passengers had reached them and they were surrounded by curious eager faces. Charity looked around her, shamed, feeling the marks of the strap like fire across her slender back and shoulders. She struggled to a sitting position.

  “Let’s hear what the lady has to say about it,” Alan Bellingham said, leaning down and offering Charity his hand.

  “Lady!” The big woman’s voice rose to a howl. “You call that a lady?”

  Alan Bellingham looked down into Charity’s flushed, rebellious face, her wild bright hair blowing, one white shoulder showing through a sleeve torn from her fall.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I do so call her.”

  Charity took the proffered hand and looked up wonderingly into that grave, handsomely sculptured face, that broad calm brow below the curled ash-blond periwig, the wide mouth that smiled in repose and the slate-blue eyes that looked so steadily into her own—and felt her senses reel.

  “Twas a yellow-haired wench in a red shawl,” bellowed the woman. “I was told twas her!”

  “She’s mistaken me for somebody else,” explained Charity painfully.

  “Begone,” said Alan Bellingham curtly over his shoulder to Charity’s attacker. “And if ye bother this lady again, I’ll see ye flogged for your day’s work.” Sputtering, the woman departed and Alan retrieved the shawl, spread it over Charity’s shoulders and asked in a solicitous voice if he might help her to her cabin. Still wincing from the pain of the attack and afraid the strap had torn the material of her only dress, Charity nodded, hardly noticing in her misery the furious faces of the Virginia planter’s family. Leaning on Mr. Bellingham’s strong arm, Charity made her way to her cabin—to find the door ajar and her little leather casket, which she had so carefully tied with thongs, sitting open on her bed. At the sight, she cried out in dismay and Alan Bellingham said sharply, “Is that empty casket yours then?”

  Dismally, Charity nodded.

  “What is this, a ship of thieves?” he demanded, furious. “Surely you have been stripped of your possessions, mistress, whilst that woman attacked you on the deck! Was she then a decoy to occupy your attention so you would not note you were being robbed?”

  “Oh, no.” Charity flung the red shawl down upon the bunk. “She but mistook me for Helga with whom I share this cabin. Tis Helga’s shawl and doubtless twas Helga with her husband last night!”

  He frowned. “Helga’s morals are no con
cern of mine. But if the cabins of this ship are being pilfered, I’ll bring the culprits to justice, that I will!. Someone will swing for it!”

  In horror Charity realized to what a pass her pretense that the little casket was valuable had brought her. Helga had eyed it curiously from the first. Doubtless she had opened it and finding it empty, left it open in contempt. Now Charity wondered what kind of “trouble” Helga had got into in New York.

  The enraged Mister Bellingham was about to swing away when Charity caught his arm. “No, wait,” she cried. “I—I must tell you the casket was empty. It was empty when I brought it aboard.”

  “What? You’re telling me you travel with empty baggage? Who is it you’re shielding, mistress?”

  “No one,” admitted Charity sadly. “I—it’s a long story. . . Pain and the reaction to the unprovoked attack on her made her reel light-headedly for a moment against the wall. Instantly contrite, Alan was by her side again.

  “S’death,” he cried. “Here you’re like to faint and I’m crashing about. There’s wine in my cabin to restore you. That is—if you’ll accompany me there?” He cast a worried look at her. “The back’s near gone from your dress, mistress. Wouldst change it first?”

  “I... have no other,” said Charity miserably.

  He looked shocked, but he put his coat about her and helped her to his cabin. She winced as the coat rubbed against the sore places on her back and shoulders. It was with relief that she sank down on a chair in his cabin and watched him pour wine into a silver flagon. Over the wine he introduced himself.

  “I am Alan Bellingham,” he said.

  “I am Charity Woodstock,” said Charity. “Late of Torquay.” She shifted her smarting shoulders.

  He noted that. “Sit you here, mistress, and recover yourself. I will return shortly.”

  She watched him go and then looked around the cabin. Helga had been right: his luggage was indeed handsome. Some silver toilet articles were scattered about as well as a pale green coat as fine as the blue one he was wearing.

  Bellingham returned with a dress flung over his arm.

  “Mistress Amalie is about your size,” he said gravely. And, to Charity’s surprised look, added: “She is Mr. Wigstrom’s eldest daughter.” Charity guessed he meant the Virginia planter whose family had hovered over him during the voyage.

  “I—have no money to pay for it,” she said, with a yearning look at the dress.

  “That I have already done,” he said curtly. “So there will be no need for you to do so. I will stand outside to see that you are not disturbed while you dress.” He frowned. “But first, the blows that foul woman rained upon you—I have with me some ointment. Could I call this Helga with whom you share a cabin?”

  Charity had no desire to lay eyes on Helga again. She had taken a beating for Helga already, and enough was enough.

  “Tis only where the lash struck my back that I think the skin is broken,” she said wistfully. “Do you think you could put a bit of salve on it? I’d be most beholden. It shames me for word to be put about the ship of my plight,” she added.

  He looked startled, but at the plaintive note of her last words he opened a small leather chest and looked about until he found the ointment he sought. With gentle fingers he felt through the rip of the back of Charity’s dress and reported that the skin there was broken “but not very much.” Nevertheless she flinched as his fingers—trembling a little—touched the raw place on her back.

  “My shoulders too,” she murmured. “Perhaps just a bit of the salve?” And she undid the top of her bodice and shrugged her dress and chemise down about her white shoulders. “Not too much,” she added anxiously. “It might stain my dress. Perhaps you’d best rub a bit off.”

  Although only the very tops of her breasts and her smooth rounded shoulders were exposed, she saw his face flame and heard his quick indrawn breath. He touched her very carefully, with great courtesy. He was so nice, she thought. He was also handsome and wealthy and a gentleman.

  And married.

  That thought stiffened her spine. She had had one adventure with a married man in which she had come off with a badly bruised heart; she could ill afford another.

  “Thank you,” she said, and turning, smiled up into his eyes.

  The color in his face deepened and he stepped quickly away from her. As if, she thought grimly, she might be a hot stove that would burn him if he stayed.

  With a look of relief, he left the cabin and closed the door behind him.

  Being careful not to drag the material against her hurt back and shoulders any more than necessary, Charity eased off her dress and put on the one he had brought.

  It fit her perfectly!

  She stood up, hardly believing her good luck. It had been worth a few stripes to arrive in Charles Town in a dress in which she might seek genteel employment—instead of a worn, mended garment in which she would look fit only to empty chamber pots.

  The petticoats were of delicate green lawn, with an overskirt and fitted bodice of sprigged white and green cambric with billowing sleeves. It was as cool as mint and suited the sunshine of her hair as the summer sun suited the shimmering green of the leaves. After she had combed her hair with Alan’s silver comb, arranging it carefully and modishly, she opened the door. With a heart bursting with gratitude, she curtsied to Alan Bellingham, who looked quite startled at this instant transformation from serving wench to lady.

  “It becomes you well,” he said. “May I see you to your cabin?”

  “The sun is coming out,” observed Charity. “I would rather chance the deck—if there are no more madwomen about bent on flogging the nearest stranger.”

  “I will assure that there are none,” he said gravely. “For I will be glad to accompany you on your stroll.”

  Her topaz eyes shining, Charity swept to the deck and paced up and down it on the arm of the fashionable Mr. Bellingham, noting with satisfaction the fury in the eyes of the Virginia planter’s family. She gave them a sweet smile as she passed. After all, one of them—probably the one with the pretty figure and the angry face—had furnished this lovely dress she was wearing. She felt a kind of ironic gratitude toward her detractor, whose spiteful low-voiced comments she could hear as they passed.

  Beside her Alan Bellingham heard too, frowned and marched her to the far end of the ship. Pausing by the rail, he asked her if this was her first visit to America. Warily, Charity admitted that it was, adding a vague bit about having come to Boston to live with relatives who had turned her out because their daughter’s betrothed had unfortunately preferred Charity and had begun to pay her court. When Alan nodded understandingly, she added that she “could not bear to talk about them, they had used her so wickedly,” and hoped she would not have to elaborate further on her experiences here in the Colonies. To her surprise, her remark about Boston struck quite another chord.

  “I have been to Boston,” he said, “I went last year,”

  She caught her breath in fear. Perhaps he had heard about the escaped witch who had fled a burning in Dynestown....

  “I stayed but briefly,” he added in a moody voice. “Twas a sad errand brought me there—one which ended badly.”

  Charity looked sympathetic but he did not elaborate. He began, instead, telling her about his plantation near Charles Towne where he had first raised indigo and, now, had gone heavily into rice. Rice, he assured her with enthusiasm, was the “crop of the future” for the swampy land was ideally suited for its culture. For a long time they talked and when at last he left—barely in time for his dinner in the captain’s cabin—Charity watched him go wistfully. How she would have liked to accompany him....

  Soberly she went down to eat with the less illustrious passengers in the common room, where Helga looked flustered at the sight of her. Charity gave her a grim look and retired to the cabin immediately after dinner. Let Helga entertain her “gentlemen friends” on deck for all she cared! As Charity prepared for bed, Helga came in and stood, for a
moment, frowning and uncertain, then angrily got into bed herself without even putting on her nightgown. For the remainder of the voyage, they did not speak.

  Charity could not have cared less what Helga did, for she spent most of her daytime hours with Alan Bellingham. All the way to Carolina she strolled about the deck with him, ignoring the whisperings and stares of the Virginia planter’s family. Together they leaned on the ship’s rail and he told her about himself and about his wife. For Charity, it was a respite from thinking about whatever lay ahead. Glad to be standing there, glad to hear his rich, charming, masculine voice, she listened.

  Although Bellingham himself had been born in the Colonies—his father had been a planter on the James, who had succumbed to yellow fever and died—his wife was from Devon. Three years ago on a visit to England he had married Marie and brought her to her new home in Carolina—but this new land charmed her not. She was wistful for England and the comforts of life there. Then, too, her health was a problem. He sighed deeply and Charity began to wonder if Marie was consumptive. She knew what it was like to watch someone you loved waste away. She had watched her own mother die—so slowly. Her heart went out to Alan, looking so pensive and so handsome with the sea wind blowing his ash-blond hair.

  When he asked her about her future plans, she admitted she hoped to become a governess. Would she consider a position as a scribe? he wondered. There was need for such a one at his plantation, for his factor, though a good manager, wrote so poorly that none could read his scrawl, and penmanship was sorely needed for the bills and accounts.

  Charity caught her breath. To work for Alan! And not as a chambermaid, but as a scribe! Instantly she agreed, hardly listening as he soberly told her the terms of her employment, adding morosely that there was “not overmuch work” and he’d “be much obliged if she could assist his wife in other duties as might be required.” Eagerly, Charity promised to assist his wife, and she looked out upon the blue ocean with a glowing hope for the future. At least she would be beside Alan!