The Jezebel's Daughter

by Juliet MacLeod

  There was a familiar-looking square of paper with a broken seal on the table next to the bottle.

  My blood froze in my veins. I could feel Ben's eyes on me, boring into me, demanding an explanation or apology or something. I looked up at him, peering out from underneath my fringe of lashes, too afraid, too ashamed to meet his eyes straight on. “How did you find it?” I asked at last, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

  He shook his head minutely. It was an angry, abbreviated gesture and I could feel the slow burn of his temper. “It don't matter, Loreley. What be important be that I know your secret.”

  I swallowed loudly. He'd read the letter to Uncle Frederick. He knew that Madame had lied about who I was. He knew that Graves had paid an obscene amount of money for a lie. I gripped the edge of the table and tried to breathe around the lump in my throat. “What will you do?”

  He barked out a bitter, humorless laugh and drank down the rest of whatever was in his glass in one slug before pouring more. “What can I do? If Graves be finding out, he kill you. He kill me. Hell, he kill the boy on the Nonsuch.” He paused to drink down another slug from his glass and then fixed me with an awful look. “Do you be wanting that? Do you be wanting some innocent boy to die because you be too... selfish to think about how you be affecting others?”

  I gulped in a breath of air, swallowing down tears. They would serve no purpose here. I shook my head and looked down at the table in front of me, unable to meet his eyes. He was right; I had been too selfish in my attempt. I hadn't thought it through. Graves would indeed have killed me, Ben, and Jamie if he'd been the one to discover the note and my escape attempts. I sighed and looked up at Ben. His attention was on his glass, though I could tell by the tense set of his shoulders and jaw that it wasn't having the numbing effect he wished.

  “I'm sorry.” He grunted but didn't speak. “I just want to go home.” My voice cracked and I sniffed back a sob, trying to put on a brave face.

  “You can't. You be Graves's. He own you, girl. He won't ever let you go.” His voice was monotone, emotionless. I had the impression that he, too, was trapped by his own circumstances, a free negro but unable to leave Graves's service. He owed Graves far more than he could ever hope to repay and he seemed an honorable man. The weight of that debt would rest on his shoulders for the remainder of his life.

  “Will you tell him?” I asked tentatively.

  He belted back the rest of his glass before standing up. He picked up the note and tossed it into the fire. We watched the flames consume my desperate words and then he turned to me and cupped my chin gently, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I won't. I can't. But you never do this again, Loreley. Do you hear?” I nodded. “Tell me.”

  “I understand. I won't do this again,” I said, knowing that it was a lie. He smiled, briefly, an expression that did not quite meet his eyes. Then he patted my shoulder and then left the room. I did not see him for the rest of the day.

  VII

  House of Earthly Delights, Nassau, New Providence Island

  December, 1715

  October passed without much fanfare, despite the fact that I turned sixteen on the twenty-sixth. There were no presents, no congratulations. In fact, I didn't even mention the significance of the date to anyone. It didn't feel right to acknowledge the importance of the day, since my mother and father were no longer living. I couldn't bide the thought of a celebration without them.

  November was equally void of excitements. I did not, thankfully, have to see Graves, as he and the Jezebel were out hunting. I read everything I could get my hands on, demanding that Ben make trips to the market to request books from plantations around the island.

  Word reached Nassau in mid-November about the wreck of the Spanish treasure fleet in the same hurricane that had sunk the Resolution. Within two or three days of the news, most of the pirates who called Nassau Harbor home were in Florida, scavenging the wrecks. Once a week or more, a new crew would show up, flush with Spanish silver and spend it all in a few days. Ben was called on to dissuade sailors from breaking into my room on three separate occasions. The waste of money on alcohol and women disgusted me.

  December brought cooler temperatures and slightly less rain than had the previous months of my captivity in Nassau. Though our relationship was still somewhat strained, Ben and I spent far more time out of doors together than we had before, especially after he procured not only paints, brushes, and canvases for me, but graphite and charcoal sticks, a porte-crayon, a collection of nice quills and three bottles of ink, and an easel and a small portable stool as well. After doing some paintings of the buildings around the city, I decided that painting people was far more interesting. I set up a small portrait gallery in the marketplace and spent most of every afternoon painting people in exchange for small coins, bits of ribbon, cheap jewelery, and sweeties. I didn't want payment but most people insisted on giving me something for my work. Poor Ben was bored out of his mind during these sessions, but as he was unwilling to leave my side, he suffered through with only the barest amount of complaining.

  The morning before Christmas Day dawned chilly and overcast. I had slept only fitfully the night before. A vicious thunderstorm had kept me awake, as thunder crashed and lightning stabbed the skies. My room developed a leak in one corner, and the drumming of the rainfall into the ewer, which had to be emptied at least once an hour, had made sleep difficult. Ben's grumbling hadn't helped, either.

  When I got out of bed and wrapped myself in my robe, I saw him still sleeping—a rare thing. Usually he was up long before me, getting our breakfast and tea ready and spending time teasing Tansy unmercifully. She pretended she hated it, but I saw the way she smiled behind Ben's back. She fancied him and I know he fancied her. I wondered if the match would be allowed by Madame. If Ben married a slave, would he own his wife? Could he free her? More importantly, would Madame free her?

  I mulled over these thoughts as I opened the windows and looked out over the harbor. The Jezebel was sitting at anchor and as I watched, one of her jolly-boats was being rowed towards shore. My fingers went numb and I must have made some sort of noise, because Ben was at my side moments later, wariness rolling off him in waves.

  “Oh,” he said, no doubt spotting the Jezebel. “You know he come back eventually.” He gripped my shoulder gently and drew me away from the window to sit at the table. “The captain will probably be spending tomorrow with his family—”

  “Family?” I asked, shocked by the notion. “He has children?” The thought that children were being raised by such a heartless, cruel monster terrified me.

  “No, but his wife do. From a previous marriage,” he explained when I gave him a puzzled look. “He'll be wanting... Well, to be here tonight.” His eyes softened and he gave me a gentle smile. “I'll get breakfast and ask Tansy to help you get ready later.” He went out into the hallway, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone with my awful thoughts.

  Ben was right; I did know Graves would come back eventually. I just hadn't prepared for it. Would he want... Well, of course he would. I lived in a brothel, after all. I mightn't be a common whore, but I was bought and paid for just the same.

  Breakfast was a silent affair, Ben and I both occupied by our own thoughts about the captain's return. I had a momentary panic as I worried that Ben would tell Graves about my letter after all. I finally decided that he would do no such thing. He'd given me his word and I trusted him. He'd never given me any reason not to and I couldn't bear the thought of not having a confidant in this terrible place. My secrets were safe with him. Not to mention the fact that if Graves found Ben lacking in his task of guarding me, Ben would no doubt end up swinging from a gibbet over the harbor.

  After breakfast, Tansy came to my room and we began the hours-long, arduous task of readying me for the captain's visit. First, I insisted that we clean the room—sweeping out the hearth and laying new wood in the andirons, replacing the candles and flowers, dusting, polishing, and turning the mattress
. Then she helped me replace my bedding with clean sheets and a newer quilt.

  Once the room had been thoroughly cleaned, I took a bath in flower-scented water before Tansy rubbed the same sweet-smelling cream over my skin that she had used the last time I'd seen Graves. She plaited my hair and wrapped it around the crown of my head before tucking flowers and bits of lace and a few loose pearls into the braid. Then she helped me dress—shift and stockings, stays, hooped petticoat, a quilted silk petticoat, a silk damask gown the same delicate blue color as the skies above the harbor outside my window, a darker blue stomacher that had been embroidered with silver thread, and cream silk shoes. My jewelery was simple—pearl earbobs, my cameo owl ring, and a simple cream velvet ribbon tied around my throat. She dusted powder across my face and my decolletage and rouged my cheeks and lips. Finally, she pronounced me finished and left the room to go keep watch for the captain's arrival.

  I caught a sight of myself in the looking glass and immediately turned away. I was beautiful and it pained me to know that the man for whom all this work had been done would not appreciate it. All of Tansy's sweet-smelling creams and the flowers and delicate fabrics would be wasted on the barbarous captain. He would spare me half a glance before he demanded I take it all off. Hours of work and effort would be utterly disregarded in a five-second rush of lust and greed.

  I sat down at the table and tried to imagine that I was waiting for a secret love, like Susannah and I had giggled over just a month ago. He would be tall and handsome, with kind blue eyes and a noble bearing, a soldier in His Majesty's Army, or perhaps a commander in His Navy. He would be intelligent, generous, never cruel, and he would make me laugh. It had been a very long time since I had laughed.

  The time seemed to creep past. I refused luncheon, then tea, and then dinner. I watched the Jezebel off-loading until sunset, then I listened to the streets below my window come alive. They seemed louder than normal; there was more drunken laughter and arguing, and more than a few fights broke out. Perhaps the Jezebel and her crew had had a particularly lucrative few months on the water and now the sailors were spending their spoils in the taverns and brothels of Nassau. It seemed as though they would have been better off depositing their money with a goldsmith, as my father did in London. But I supposed that being a pirate didn't exactly lend itself to smart investing or money management.

  Finally there was a knock at the door and Ben's head poked in. His eyes went wide when he spotted me and he smiled. “Don't you be pretty as a flower,” he said as he stepped inside the room.

  I blushed and looked down at my hands, which were folded together demurely in my lap. “Thank you,” I said softly. At least he noticed.

  “Captain's here,” he explained as he stood next to me. “Jezebel took a rich Dutch merchant and he be looking to spend a lot of reales. He be wanting a meal—roast pork and lots of wine.” He paused and laid his hand gently on my shoulder. “Drink it. Drink a lot of it. It make the night go faster.” I nodded and he left, closing the door behind him.

  A few moments later, he came back with Tansy at his heels. They brought in platters and plates and bowls and a soup tureen and a bread board and wine bottles and two good wineglasses. They set out the meal carefully, stoked the fire, and lit all the candles in the room, while they avoided looking at me and speaking to each other. I suddenly felt as though I was a condemned man having his last meal before being taken to the headsman.

  I could feel tension creeping into my neck and shoulders and stood up to pace while they worked. I fidgeted with my ring, turning and twisting it on my finger, and the ribbon around my throat suddenly felt too tight. I stopped at the windows and flung them open to the night, desperate for air. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing and trying to block out everything around me.

  I would survive tonight. I had survived the first night with Graves, and according to Tansy and the other girls in the brothel, the first time was the worst. It wouldn't hurt as much with each successive act. This knowledge was a relief, but I vowed that despite what the girls and Tansy had all said, I would never, ever enjoy it.

  A man cleared his throat behind me and I turned to find Graves standing in the doorway, studying me. He was dressed in his trademark black, though hints of gold were in his waistcoat and sash. I curtsied for him, trying to be demure while at the same time hiding my terror. He entered the room and then closed the door behind him. He crossed to the table and drew out a chair for me. I sat down carefully, using my best courtly manners as he pushed in the chair and then sat next to me.

  He poured us both glasses of wine, his eyes never leaving me. They moved hungrily over my face, my breasts, my gown, even my shoes. “Is this one of the gowns I bought?” he asked at length.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered. “Do you... Do you like it?”

  “I told you—blue suits you.” He sipped his wine, still studying me.

  “Th—Thank you,” I managed before sipping from my own glass. The wine was delicious, sweet and strong. The alcohol went straight to my head and Ben's advice came back to me. I was willing to try anything to make the night go faster. I had only been drunk once in my life prior to this night and I found it a not entirely unpleasant experience. The feeling of false happiness, of floating was certainly worth the minor headache and furry mouth the next morning, especially if it made the rest of this evening's activities more palatable.

  We sat in silence, sipping our wine, and the tension inside me built slowly. Finally, I couldn't bear it any longer and blurted out, “How long have you been a pirate?” As soon as the words had left my mouth, I regretted asking the question. Graves wasn't about to tell me of his life. And did I really want to know anything about him, beyond what I knew now? I didn't want him to be a person with wants and needs and desires. I wanted him to remain a caricature of a villain in a book, like Bluebeard. It somehow made my life easier.

  Graves stared at me, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and I swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze. I focused my attention on my glass and prayed silently that I hadn't overstepped some boundary I was unaware of and whipped as a result of my temerity.

  “For two years,” he said at last, just when I was about to apologize for speaking out of turn and beg him not to punish me. “Before that, I was a privateer out of Spanish Town. I still have the letter of marque, though, of course, it's no longer valid.”

  “Of course,” I said, nodding, the only response I could come up with. I had honestly not expected him to answer my question at all. His willingness to offer up personal information just made me more curious, so again without thinking, I asked, “And your wife? How does she feel about your... profession?”

  He gave me a long level look, his green eyes blazing with the fires of his temper. “How do you know about Lizzie?” he asked, his voice cold and tightly controlled.

  I shrugged, trying for nonchalant, though inside I was quaking with fear. “I overheard her mentioned in the tavern one night. She lives here, on the island, correct? With her children?” Dear God; why couldn't I stop talking?

  “We're estranged,” he said, ignoring my second set of questions in favor of answering my first. “I haven’t seen her since I left Jamaica.”

  I frowned but managed to hide it by looking down into my cup. Either he was lying or Ben was, and I had very little reason to think Ben would deliberately mislead me. But why would Graves tell me he hadn't seen his wife in two years or more? Did he think it mattered somehow to me? Did he think that I wouldn't share my bed with him if I thought he was regularly enjoying marital relations with his own wife? As if I had a choice in the matter.

  Finishing my glass of wine, I forced myself to stand and make my way to the platters covered with food. My knees felt wobbly and my stomach muscles were clenched so hard I could barely breathe, but I was forcing myself to act normally, as though Graves didn't terrify me. I had known some other men, sailors for my father, who lived to dominate others. Father had never acted as thou
gh he was afraid of them and eventually, they stopped behaving in such a beastly manner. Perhaps the same strategy would work here. And I had attended enough family dinners to know if my mouth was stuffed, there was very little chance I could open it and stick my foot in it.

  “May I serve you, sir?” I picked up a plate and angled it towards the pork and root vegetables, looking for the finest cut for him. My hands were shaking and the edge of the plate rattled against the soup tureen. Graves ignored it.

  “Call me Gideon,” he said and nodded. “Yes, please do. I'm famished.” I filled his plate, ladled him a bowl of soup, poured him another glass of wine, and then served myself a significantly smaller amount of food. I managed not to spill anything, despite my nerves. We shared a silent meal, only the sounds of the streets below my window and the occasional pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth as accompaniment. I ate slowly, watching the captain out of the corner of my eyes. He plowed through his meal with gusto, displaying remarkably good table manners to my surprise. But it was as if it had been days or even weeks since he'd had a decent meal. Remembering some of the food we'd consumed on our voyage from London, I thought that was entirely within the realm of possibility. Salted pork and ship's biscuits with only a once-a-week bit of lemon for variety certainly got tiring after six weeks.

  Dessert was some sort of fresh fruit pastry and it was heavenly. I allowed myself to linger over it, taking small, delicate bites and savoring each taste. It was sweet and tart and tasted like the rare summer sunshine in England. I was suddenly, profoundly homesick and blinked back tears, hoping Graves wouldn't notice them.

  Whenever his wine glass was empty, I refilled it promptly. Flora, one of the other girls on my floor, told me that if a man was drunk enough, he couldn't... perform... and on the off chance that was correct, I was determined to get him as drunk as I possibly could. I didn't shy away from the wine either. I was at last feeling warm, and my head was cotton-filled, my movements and thoughts slow and languid, sure indications that I was well on my way to being very drunk. We went through three bottles by the time we began the dessert course and I left the table briefly to send Amos—who was standing outside my door—down to the tavern to bring up three more.