This Loving Torment

by Valerie Sherwood

  Then she began to fear the jail food. Suppose Marie guessed that she would speak out and managed to put manzanilla in her food? Jailers could be bought like other men!

  She put down her spoon and stared at her gruel in horror. One day she drank only water and the kindly old jailer looked at her, worried.

  “Tis good,” he insisted, and to prove it took a spoonful himself.

  Thereupon, Charity seized the bowl and ate it all. He went out shaking his head.

  During the long days she reviewed her life and thought pensively of all that had happened in her short lifetime. Too short, but she would not plead, she would not wallow in self-pity, she would not beg and whine. She would stand up proudly and face them down and tell the truth. And then they could take her out and hang her.

  For her folly, life had presented a bill. And she would pay it.

  She did not know it was her father’s wild Irish spirit that glowed in her now, that spirit that when he lay dying had made him think of the woman he had so lately held in his arms. In his fashion, he had paid his bill.

  So would she.

  CHAPTER 47

  She had no warning when it came. She was sitting dejected in her dark cell when the door creaked open. She blinked at the lantern the old jailer carried and shielded her eyes from its light.

  “Ye’re free,” the jailer said and she looked up at him dully, not comprehending. “I said ye’re free,” he repeated. “Captain Court traded his body for yours.”

  Charity came to her feet. “Court’s—here?”

  “Aye, chained in the jail. The Sea Witch came in with the tide and he offered to trade himself for the woman accused of killing René du Bois—and that’s you, mistress. Out ye go now.”

  Charity felt suffocated. Jeremy had come for her! She swayed on her feet, her heart bursting. Only a man in love would trade his life for a woman. . . . Jeremy loved her, must have loved her all along! He had been hers—and she had deserted him.

  And now he would dangle on hemp for her sake and be buried between the high tide and the low. . . . To this cruel end had her folly brought him.

  “Where is he?” she cried. “I must see him. I must speak to him.”

  “Ye can’t. Nobody can speak to him. He’s been put in the deepest hole we’ve got so’s he can’t escape us.”

  A great sob escaped her as she ran out past the jailer.

  “Wait,” he cried. “He’s asked that the price on his head be paid to you and that you—”

  Charity did not hear him. She had rushed from the jail, sobbing, into the crowd that had gathered outside.

  “Tis Captain Court’s woman!” cried someone. Heads craned to look at her and Charity came up short, confronted by an evil grinning face. She brushed aside the man who blocked her way and ran past. Still sobbing, she raced down the street until she found a lonely gatepost where a horse was tethered. Without hesitation, she untied the reins, flung herself onto his back and galloped down the cart track toward Magnolia Barony.

  Jeremy Court would hang as a pirate because of the lies René and Marie had spread—but not if a confession could be wrung from Marie!

  Skirts flying, branches slapping her face, Charity’s horse thundered the four miles and more to Magnolia Barony. Nearly there, she stopped, dismounted, gave her horse a pat and stole across the lawn and through the trees. The kitchen door was seldom locked. One of the house slaves was usually on duty there, dozing through the night on a chair. So, she stole through that door, past the sleeping servant and into the house.

  A brace of dueling pistols were kept in the dining room. Quietly, Charity found them, loaded one and crept up the back stairs. Once she paused, thinking she had heard a step behind her, then deciding she had not, and moved on. She opened Marie’s door and closed it softly behind her. Marie did not stir. She slept soundly, Charity noted. Swiftly Charity found pen and ink and paper—and sealing wax. From the guttering candle by the bedside she lit another taper and then prodded Marie’s back with the barrel of the long dueling pistol.

  Marie rolled over and saw Charity. Her violet eyes flew wide and so did her mouth—to scream. Charity thrust the pistol almost into her mouth.

  “If you say a word,” she said in a low voice, “I’ll blow your head off.” She added, “I would like to blow your head off.”

  White-faced, Marie subsided, shrinking back into the bedcovers.

  “You will get up,” ordered Charity. “You will sit down at that desk and write a full confession—everything, how you schemed with St. Clair and with René to blacken Court’s name. Up!”

  Shaking, Marie got up, edged away from Charity toward the desk where pen and paper awaited. “How—how did you get out?” she demanded in a shaky voice.

  “Jeremy came for me,” said Charity grimly. “He exchanged himself for me.” To Marie’s open-mouthed astonishment, she waved the barrel of the pistol. “Be about it,” she said.

  As if mesmerized, Marie sat down and began to write with long flourishes across the paper. Her confession covered several pages. Reaching carefully across the front of the desk, Charity read it with one eye on her prisoner. It was all there—names, places, dates. Surely any court would accept that!

  “Now sign,” she directed sharply. “There’s sealing wax. Imprint your signet ring in the wax beside your signature, and the same to seal it together. Address it to the magistrate. We’ll be dropping it off at his house.”

  “We?” Marie looked up.

  “You and I,” said Charity with a note of finality.

  “No, the three of us,” came Kirby’s cool voice behind them. Startled, Charity looked around to see his tall lean frame lounging against the doorjamb. Held negligently in one hand was a very large pistol. He smiled at Charity.

  “I was in the crowd outside the jail when you were released, and I followed to see where you were going so hotfoot. It’s been an interesting conversation I’ve overheard, that it has, and I’m as eager to read that as any magistrate.” He took the letter from Marie, scanned it rapidly. “Very nicely put—and it puts a rope around your pretty neck, m’lady.” He gave Marie a mocking bow. “Jeremy will be pleased to know your love for him was so great it moved you to write a confession to free him.” He turned to Charity. “We’d best away. I wouldn’t want to be here come daylight.”

  “I’m not dressed!” protested Marie, looking down at her filmy nightgown.

  Silently, Charity tossed her a dressing gown.

  “Ah, wait—my jewels!” implored Marie.

  “They’ll help console Alan—and pay his debts,” Charity said brusquely, and pushed the wild-eyed Marie from the room. Downstairs they trouped, the confession in Kirby’s pocket. This time they left by the front door and moved silently out to the stables where Kirby hitched up the carriage while Charity kept the gun pointed at Marie.

  Down the cart track they headed, the women silent, but Kirby keeping up a bright monologue. Had they heard? A general amnesty had been offered to the buccaneers. One had only to go in to obtain the king’s pardon. Many would do it.

  “Will you?” wondered Marie.

  He shook his head, “Tortuga suits me.”

  “Then they cannot hold Jeremy in jail!” cried Charity. “They’ll have to release him!”

  “Nay, this is Charles Towne justice,” Kirby told her. “Tis Charles Towne put a price on our heads, and they’re a resolute people here. They’ll hang him first and ask the king later.”

  Charity shuddered, hardly listening as he went on to other subjects. Finally, Kirby told her that while aprowl in the West Indies the Sea Witch had come upon an English ship aground on a sand bar and Court had ordered it tugged free with ropes. While this was being done, the ship’s captain had come aboard the Sea Witch for a glass of port. He’d come directly from Charles Towne harbor, this captain, and he brought the latest news. Twas the very night Charity had been taken, Kirby told them brightly, that the captain had left Charles Towne. Of course Court set out—”

&nbs
p; “Stop,” Charity interrupted. “We’re here. This is the magistrate’s house.” She jumped out of the carriage as they pulled up before the house, grasped the heavy knocker and hammered on the door. A sleepy servant opened the door, told them resentfully the household was asleep and took the letter, mumbling he’d give it to his master next morning.

  Charity was near tears; she wanted Marie’s confession read now.

  As they pulled out onto the road they heard a spattering of gunfire from the direction of the jail, and the heavy roll of guns from the Sea Witch. Kirby laughed recklessly. “Court didn’t wait for you,” he said. “Sounds like he’s arranged his own rescue. Probably had the jail taken by part of the crew he thoughtfully landed down the coast before he sailed in.”

  “What—what will happen to us?” cried Marie.

  “I’ll signal the Sea Witch,” said Kirby. They dashed through the town, which was full of people running about so that their careening progress seemed only natural. When they reached the narrow trail by which Kirby said he had walked from the coast, he got out and unhitched the horses. “Charity can ride alone, but you, m’lady, will ride with me—just in case you decide to escape and inform on the way we’ve gone,” he told Marie, and pulled her up in front of him on the horse.

  “You were never so ungallant in Tortuga,” she pouted.

  “Ah, but there Jeremy stood between us,” he said humorously. “Now it’s my own dainty hide I’m protecting!”

  Down the narrow path they hurried—it was an Indian trail and some parts of it were barely negotiable by their horses. Charity could hear Marie cursing as the thorny vines reached out their sharp tendrils and tore at her arms and legs. As for herself, Charity scarcely felt their pricks. Sounds like he’s arranged his own rescue, Kirby had said. Dear God, let it be so! Let him be safe aboard the Sea Witch at this moment! She found herself sobbing brokenly into the wind, let him live, let him live ... when Kirby at last reined to a halt by the shore.

  “There she is,” he cried, peering out across the dark water. “Can you see her?”

  Squinting, Charity saw across the black glittering water the dull gray sails of a dark-hulled ship moving away from the Charles Towne quay.

  “Now if the moon’s bright enough,” Kirby muttered, “this ought to do it.” And took from his pocket a piece of steel rubbed mirror-bright. He stood there flashing it at the ship.

  Suddenly from the ship a light appeared—a lantern swung back and forth, back and forth.

  “They’ve seen us,” Kirby said with satisfaction. “We’ll be on our way to Tortuga soon, ladies.”

  “Let me go back,” pleaded Marie. “Jeremy’s in no danger now. Charity is safe. I can get back the confession—I can say it was taken at gunpoint. Let me go back and lead my life, Kirby.”

  “That’s for Jeremy to say,” he told her shortly. “If that’s what he wants for you, he can set you ashore as easily as he picks you up.”

  “The Sea Witch wouldn’t have sailed away without him, would she?” asked Charity, afraid.

  “Not likely,” grinned Kirby. “No, Jeremy’s buccaneers would still be back there contesting the guns of Charles Towne for their captain—they’d have ended up tearing the town apart. His men swear by Jeremy, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  She knew they did, but she was so afraid for him, so afraid. . . .

  When the longboat picked them up, the first thing she asked was a faltering, “Is—is Captain Court—?”

  “Safe aboard, mistress,” Ravenal answered, and Charity slumped against the side of the boat, weak with relief.

  Across the dark water the long sweep of the oars took them toward that ship of which she had such memories. . . .

  Marie was first to clamber aboard with a flash of white legs and filmy nightgown, quickly covered by her robe. And then Kirby helped Charity up the side. He regarded her narrowly; then, like a man who’d been waiting for just the right moment, he turned to Marie with a laugh. “Ye’ll be interested to know that Jeremy thought he was trading himself for you, not Charity.” he said. “The English captain had reported only that the law was on its way to Magnolia Barony to arrest someone for the murder of René du Bois. Naturally, Jeremy assumed that Marie had been arrested!”

  So Jeremy had come for Marie, not for her! Charity found it a stunning blow. She sagged against Kirby, who gallantly threw an arm around her.

  She was standing thus, half wrapped in Kirby’s embrace, when Court, striding through a crowd of buccaneers, reached them. He frowned.

  “I’ve brought the ladies,” said Kirby blithely. “They’ve just heard that there’s a general amnesty offered to our lot. So, some will be for England—or Barbadoes or the Colonies, but not Leeds Kirby! I’m for the free life in Tortuga—what say ye, lads?”

  There was a general cheer and Court’s frown deepened.

  “Does this mean . . . you can go home, Jeremy?” Marie asked.

  Court nodded sternly. “Those who wish to.”

  “Then . . .” Marie swayed toward him. Ever the complete opportunist, eyes sparkling, she threw her arms around Court. “We are back where we started, Jeremy!” she cried. “We can go back to England together!”

  Standing there, braced by Kirby’s strong wiry arm, Charity reeled from this bitterest blow of her life. She wanted to die.

  To her astonishment, Court reached out his arms and put Marie firmly aside.

  “But you offered your life for me, Jeremy!” cried Marie, confused. “Kirby said so.”

  “Kirby was mistaken,” said Court coldly, his eyes raking Charity. “My information is better than that. I sent two lads ashore to spy out the town. I knew what woman was held in the jail. I came to save the woman I love.” He cast a brooding look at Charity, who was reeling with shock a second time. Her knees almost buckled and Kirby had to hold her up.

  “I realize she does not share my feelings,” Court said dryly. And before she could protest, “But she is not bound for Tortuga with you, Kirby. It’s no life for a woman there. Mistress Charity.” He now addressed her formally as she clung to Kirby, stunned. “It is my intention to put you on the first homeward-bound English ship we sight and return you with all speed to England. As I should have done in the first place. Twas a wrong that I did you, to keep you against your will. A wrong I’ll now make right.”

  With a frown, Kirby took his arm from around Charity’s shoulders and took a step forward. His voice rang out hard. “The lady should decide where she goes and with whom.”

  So savagely did Court swing on him that Kirby stepped back a pace and rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  Charity had never seen Court look so reckless or so resolute. His dark face was stern and his keen light eyes were narrowed and exceedingly evil.

  “As you love your life, Kirby,” he said softly. “Do not cross me in this.” His hand moved toward the hilt of his rapier. “Friend or no, ye’ll feel my blade between your ribs if you try to take her. Ye’ve no mind to quit this bloody trade and ye’ll end your life swinging on hemp. And then where would she be? Weeping in Tortuga and having the others draw lots for her!”

  Though the other buccaneers watched uneasily, feeling that surge of electricity that sweeps through the air just before the storm breaks, Charity felt it not. She was only aware of a blind, wonderful, unreasoning joy that lifted her up and up. Court loved her! He had seen Marie for what she was and flung her aside! He loved her. He had challenged Kirby for her!

  So many terrible things had happened, so often had she been cast down into despair, and so recently had she thought him lost to her forever, that on this, the greatest moment of her fife, she found herself standing speechless, with tears sparkling on her lashes.

  Charity felt a touch of fear as the two men—redoubtable swordsmen both—studied each other.

  Then Kirby gave a smiling shrug and offered his arm to Marie. “Sure, I’ll have my hands full escorting this lady, who knows not the ways of Tortuga.”

  Marie, who knew the
ways of Tortuga very well indeed, shook him off impatiently. “If you don’t want me, Jeremy, you could at least let me go! Set me ashore that I may find my way back to Charles Towne!”

  Court’s wintry glance played over her lustrous body in its filmy nightgown, which was only partially concealed by her carelessly tied robe. “As for you, madam,” he said coldly. “I’d a mind to take you to your friend Captain St. Clair, who deserves your scheming ways.”

  Marie caught her breath. “Ah, Jeremy, you wouldn’t!”

  “That’s right,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t. Though by heaven it’s what you deserve. Ashore you shall go.”

  “Ah, now, Jeremy,” Kirby chided, “the lady’s signed a confession absolving us all. You wouldn’t want her to swing for that!” And to Marie, “Tis doubtful in their rage that they’ll let you go. You know that, don’t you? Mobs need someone to wreak their vengeance on and you’ll be handy—condemned by your own words in your own handwriting! And who’s to say you were forced at gunpoint? They’ll think you merely missed the Sea Witch as she left and are forced into new lies to save your pretty neck!”

  Marie winced, seeing the truth of what he said.

  “Didst ever ponder that a surgeon’s share of the loot taken is second only to the captain’s?” Kirby asked impudently.

  For a moment Marie seemed to waver. Beautiful, voluptuous, she stood there weighing her chances. Suddenly she smiled at Kirby and their glances locked—two handsome, cynical opportunists, a perfect match for each other.

  “I’ll take my chances in Charles Towne,” said Marie. She shrugged. “They are but men who’ll decide my fate there and—” she glanced coldly at Charity— “I’ll wear a green dress.”

  Only Charity caught the allusion. She knew that Marie would trust to luck, and felt she would win out. And for the first time Charity could not pity Alan. He’d wanted Marie, he’d married her, he’d shown himself willing to die for her—perhaps he deserved her.