She gave a small moan of pleasure, gently put his head back to a breast. And he knew he could not wait. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her skirt he skilfully undressed her, savoured her beauty for a moment – pulled off his shirt, dragged the belt and sash from his waist and removed boots, breeches and stockings almost in the same movement. Lifted her, carried her to the bed.
“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, lying beside her and holding her lovely warm body against his nakedness. “I’ll go slow, gentle.”
Tiola shook her head, that was not what she wanted. She needed his roughness, needed him to possess her so she could lose the stifling arrogance of Stefan van Overstratten’s assumptions and the patronising disdain of his friends. Wanted to play the harlot for this one night. If it hurt, what was a moment of passing discomfort compared to a lifetime of love?
Still unwilling to inflict pain he hesitated, but she curved her hand around his erect penis and guided him in; enjoying the sensation of feeling him slide into her, his erotic kisses on her mouth, neck and breasts easing aside the small involuntary intake of breath as he took her body from girl to woman.
He murmured an apology. “I tried to be careful.”
Her own kiss lingering on his mouth was her response, and tightening her arms around his waist she rolled her hips as his breathing quickened, and his rhythmic movements became more demanding. His lovemaking was never selfish, though. Moving his hand lower, he used his fingers to heighten her pleasure and she arched her back to take him in deeper. He groaned something about not being able to belay it any longer, and as she ran her hand down his spine he gasped, pushed harder, shuddered.
At some time in the past, the full when and the where of its happening not yet revealed, their souls had briefly met and touched but had not become bound together. This joining, this linking through their intimate coupling was forever. The act of love uniting soul with soul, her Craft absorbing a part of him into herself as he emptied his seed within her. Soul mates mated. Through love, become inseparable, unless some future force of malevolence should attempt to shatter their unity and leave them bereft.
When Jenna returned an hour after sun up, her angry disappointment had mellowed. Stefan had convinced her he was not offended by the rebuttal, that indeed his admiration for Miss Tiola had increased threefold with the display of her charming modesty and lack of desire for wealth and luxury. Had assured Jenna he would ask again in a week or two, after Miss Oldstagh had become accustomed to the idea.
But there would be no asking again. Jenna found a strange woman asleep in her bed, a newborn babe snuggled in a drawer before the embers of the fire, and Tiola and Jesamiah curled together, smiling and contented in sleep.
Thirty One
April – 1717
A wind howled along the Rappahannock River and whipped across the cemetery on the open part of the hillside above the house. It was only a small graveyard with a handful of grass-covered mounds. Considering it was late April in Virginia, the sun ought to be shining and the dull earth bursting with life, but winter had been long and tedious and spring seemed to be dawdling like a woman before her mirror, reluctant to show herself in public until she looked her best.
Three-day-old dead babies did not need elaborate caskets. The grave was small, no larger than two feet or so. If Phillipe had had his way even the plain wooden box would not have been necessary. Wrap the disgusting thing in a sack and fling it into a hole. He stared across the grave at Alicia, swathed in the black of mourning, tears speckling her cheeks. Stupid woman. If she so wanted brats he could easily give her more. And the next one he would ensure to be his. This one, the sickly, puking girl, might not have been. Phillipe was not a fool, he could count to nine. Alicia had insisted the babe was full term, had come late. But why, then, did it not have hair or fingernails? Why was the thing so small and weak? They could have dressed it in a poppet doll’s clothes, for goodness sake! Oh, he had no doubt who had fathered the child, but he had no proof of it and he could not risk losing face before his neighbours, or losing Alicia’s fortune, so he stood here in the cold wind feigning grief.
Phillipe shut his ears to the monotonous bumble of the parson droning on, let his mind drift to the sea voyage he was to undertake next week. He was to go to Alicia’s Barbados plantation – normally he would have made the trip already but her condition of pregnancy had prevented it. Not that her breeding concerned him, but it would have looked bad in the eyes of the community were he to leave her for a month or so at such a time. Aside, the delay had been providential. A Dutchman wanted to increase his trade options, Phillipe was to meet him in the Caribbean to discuss terms.
The trade would be useful but his overseer could have handled the negotiations. It was Master van Overstratten Phillipe wanted to meet. He came from Cape Town where Jesamiah Acorne had been seen, and disappeared, last December. The letter sent by Phillipe’s hired agent had informed him that Acorne was believed dead. But no corpse had been found and until Phillipe was convinced of it, he was determined to keep looking. Maybe, just maybe, this Dutchman knew something about him? Or could find out?
Jesamiah’s arrival here at the plantation as a baby all those years ago had been the final ruin of Phillipe’s life. Aged only five he had been unable to understand why his mother had suddenly gone away. And then, within a few days, his father had gone too, sailing away in his ship, leaving his son in the indifferent, abusive care of servants. The slaps, the withheld food, the hours locked in the cellar, all because he cried or wet the bed, wanting his mother, aching for his father. And when one of the men, a stable hand, had befriended him? Huh! The innocence of childhood!
Two years later when Papa at last came home his son had expected everything to be alright again, except his father had not been alone. Phillipe was damned if he would accept a new, replacement mother! He was supposed to be overjoyed? Well he wasn’t. When he was rude to her, shouted or showed off, he was punished for it, sent to his room, his backside whipped. And then, when the brat that was his brother began to grow and its irritating presence became unbearable, Phillipe had made the pleasing discovery that Jesamiah was the one person he could pinch and poke and dominate. As the child’s fear grew, so Phillipe’s spite swelled with it. His one regret? Those years later when they had buried Papa here in this graveyard, he ought to have burned that damned boat with his bastard brother in it.
As for her, that second wife, the day after he had thrown Jesamiah off the plantation he had ordered her bones disinterred and thrown into the midden.
One day, and one day soon he promised himself, Jesamiah’s bones would also moulder there.
Tiola
The shell that is my body is new,
but not the knowledge
I carry and use within it.
In that, I am as ageless as you.
One
July – 1717
Tethys stirred, her presence swirling the currents as she travelled the vast loneliness of the bottom of the oceans. And as she passed, her shadow churned the debris of her accumulated trophies; the decomposing bone and flesh of once living things, lifting the rotting carcass of a whale, moving the mouldering flukes which were once its tail as if the creature were still alive. Rocking the hull of a ship torn in half, its single remaining mast pointing forlornly towards the far distant light as if imploring the sun to beat down upon the splintered and jagged decks once more. The tattered sails waved like swaying weed, and the empty eyes of the dead, her crew, stared, unburied and forsaken.
Tethys was alone among the dead, and there was no other like her. She was the sea, she was the ocean, and only in places did she meet her sister the land, her brother the air, or her semi-loyal daughter, Rain. But they all despised her greed and were indifferent to her loneliness.
She did not mind her solitude, but sometimes the desolation overwhelmed her and she had the urge to rise to the surface and make her presence felt among the humans who dwelt within the sight and the sound of the sea. She
was searching for him, for one man in particular, the one she wanted as her own.
And where she reached with her senses, the winds of the world captured her scent and filled the night air with the smell of the sea and the sound of her desolation as she touched the shore and called to him.
~ Jessh..a..miah? Jessh..a..miah? ~
Leaning on the wall at the end of Grope Lane, watching the passageway intersecting the frontage of Bella Dubois’ property, Jesamiah wondered how in heaven he was going to tell Tiola what he had done. Drop a few hints? Wait, let her find out for herself? Walk in, come straight out with it? Tiola. You are not going to like this; I have something to tell you.
A squeal of Amber-Rose’s high-pitched laughter swept through the open front door opposite, followed by a man’s deeper guffaw and Bella’s barked amusement.
Jesamiah smoothed his moustache and fiddled with his earring. Gone were the ribbons, the shabby seaman’s clothes. He still wore a sash but it was of expensive silk not rough-dyed cotton. His coat and the clothes beneath were new-made of fine material, he had even taken to wearing cotton drawers beneath his breeches. The only old, familiar things were his pistol and cutlass. And the earring.
With his money he and Tiola could easily have afforded better lodgings but both were content to remain above Bella’s, although there had been concessions. Jesamiah had bought a larger bed and a comfortable chair in which he could happily sprawl, with Tiola curled on his lap.
She had made him have a bath. At the time, seven months ago in late December, he had not remembered when he had last had one. He shaved and washed his face, usually daily, but for more than that a sluice with a bucket of seawater had sufficed twice a week, or a swim if they were ashore and careening, every two or three months or so.
That first morning together he had made leisurely love to her again: she, awakening to the new pleasures and sensations he conjured from her body with his hands and tongue; he, delighting in her response. And for the first time ever, not having to pay someone to appreciate his acquired skills. His euphoria had deflated later in the day when she told him he stank.
Ignoring his protests, Tiola had appropriated Bella’s copper-lined tub, while Bella herself had sailed in and out to exchange various tattled gossip, calling him ‘dear’ and seeming not to notice his nakedness, which foolishly had disconcerted him slightly. Tiola had giggled, unabashed had stripped to join him in the hot water. From then on the novelty of bathing had become a more regular – and interesting – occurrence.
His hands tucked beneath his armpits for warmth, he smiled at the sensuous delight of sharing a bath with a beautiful young lady. Bella, coming in with towels had said, “Never yet seen a man and a woman take a bath together without more water ending up on the floor than in the tub.” The smile broadened as he felt a twinge of arousal at the erotic memory. He and Tiola had not wasted his upright eagerness.
Tiola. How did he tell her?
He had been ashore these many months and he was aching for the sea. He was trying not to, desperately trying to enjoy this new life ashore. Tiola he loved, but wherever he went in Cape Town he was reminded of the roll of the surf driven in by the wind; could smell it, see it, hear it – almost as if it were calling his name. He missed the roll of a deck beneath his feet, missed the familiar rumble of an anchor cable, the creak of timbers, the booming crack of unfurling canvas. Awake or asleep a need of the sea was pulling him as strongly as drink or laudanum whined at a dependent.
He hunched his coat tighter, the wind, hurtling northward from the southern polar region of Antarctica sent icy gusts swirling along the cobbles and shivering down his back. As a seaman he appreciated a lively wind, as a man standing ten minutes before midnight in a windblown street trying to decide what to do, he did not.
Tiola did not agree with his gambling. She did not like him going into the taverns either, but he did so most evenings when she was out delivering a child or nursing someone sick, or setting a broken arm, or whatever she did when called hurriedly away. Usually, he would escort her to where she had to go, ensure there was always someone to see her home again then pursue his own entertainment. Trying to suppress the increasing boredom he drank rum, played cards.
This July night had started out as nothing unusual, except for the person he had played against. Jesamiah was not expert at cards, played because he enjoyed it, because it did not matter if he won or lost. What he lost one day he usually won back the next; his strategy was never to have too much silver in his pocket and never bet more than what he carried. This game had been different; his opponent had been the Dutchman, Stefan van Overstratten and the modest stakes had risen higher than either of them could afford to lose.
Jesamiah sighed again, his thoughts returning to what had happened. Hoping that something would inspire him to find the courage he needed to tell her…
The suspicion that van Overstratten had not walked into the Golden Hind tavern by coincidence alone, was uppermost in Jesamiah’s mind as he had watched the Dutchman remove his cloak and absently hand it to a servant. Shaking the spatter of rain from his hat he had then turned to speak to a group of people he obviously knew well. With about thirty men present, some sitting quiet contemplating their cards in the gaming room, others, like Jesamiah, propping up the bar, the place was not as busy as usual. Perhaps because of the rain and the biting chill of the wind. Or did most men have nagging wives or pretty mistresses to keep them within doors?
Tossing a few coins on to the counter Jesamiah had picked up his drink and sauntered across the room to one of the empty card tables, grinned as a loud cheer from the far corner announced a delighted win for someone. The wood panelling and low-beamed ceiling made the place dark, with each table a separate island of yellow candlelight. As he sat, the potboy brought a new tallow candle, removed the sagging old one with its grotesque trail of wax. This was the only room where there were no mirrors. Mirrors in a card room were not popular.
With a half smile Jesamiah watched van Overstratten surreptitiously preen before one of the several full-length looking glasses in the outer room. Knew the Dutchman would come to join him. There had been something in the way Overstratten had stared around as he stood a step or two inside the door, a pretence at casually observing who was there, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on Jesamiah. In return, Jesamiah’s attention did not leave the Dutchman, following his every move for twenty minutes or so as he accepted wine, made polite conversation.
Waving aside one man well into his cups who wanted to play, Jesamiah waited, patient.
“I hear you have been away for a few months,” he said laconically as Stefan finally wandered over and feigned surprise at seeing him sitting there. “I cannot say we have particularly missed you.”
“A business venture,” Stefan answered, indicating with his hand whether he may take the empty seat.
Jesamiah nodded. “Successful?”
“I think so. Most profitable. How fares Miss Oldstagh? She is well I trust?” Stefan clicked his fingers, called for new cards and wine, rum for Jesamiah.
“She is very well.”
“Breeding yet?”
“Not yet.”
Van Overstratten made no answer, lit a cheroot from the candle flame, the blue, aromatic smoke drifting into Jesamiah’s face; then he shuffled the cards, dealt. They played three hands Jesamiah winning two, the little pile of silver on the table accumulating.
After the fourth, a win for van Overstratten making the evening equal, the Dutchman said, “Would you consider playing for something more worthy of a wager?”
“Such as?”
Blowing a perfect smoke ring, van Overstratten answered glibly, “Name it. Ask for anything you would have of me. I am a rich man; if it is mine to give then it will be my stake.”
Aware he was being manipulated, that Stefan was too easygoing with this air of congenial charm, Jesamiah called his bluff. “I’ll have the fine three-masted square-rigged ship in the harbour. The one you brought
back from Antigua.”
The Dutchman blanched, the muscle at the corner of his eye beginning to tick in agitation. To his credit he recovered quickly, protesting with a false chuckle, “She is new, Sir, built in Deptford, London, only last year.”
Folding his arms on the card table and leaning forward, Jesamiah leered back at him. “I know. I inspected her from mast-head to bilge day before yesterday.”
Stefan’s nostrils flared angrily. Whoever had been responsible for allowing this wretch aboard would be flogged and dismissed from service – the entire crew, from captain to cabin boy if necessary. Massaging his clean-shaven chin to hide his annoyance the Dutchman considered the request. It was unreasonable, of course, which was why this scoundrel had suggested it. He lit another cheroot, came to a decision.
“Very well. On condition you agree my choice.”
Jesamiah shrugged. He had expected such a reply. “Name it.”
Stretching the anticipation Stefan called for the potboy to replenish their drinks, waited until it was served then also folded his arms and said, quiet and ominous, “I know who you are, Jesamiah Oakwood. Or should I call you Acorne? I also know what you are. I have known these past weeks. Since I returned home, however, I have said nothing out of respect for Miss Oldstagh, whom I greatly admire.”
Ah, so that is the game we are playing, Jesamiah thought. Hangman’s Noose. A sardonic smile tilted the side of his mouth, “You have said nothing before now because you have suspicion but no proof. Even here in Cape Town a man must be tried and convicted before he hangs, and for that you require evidence, I believe.”
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