The Jezebel's Daughter

by Juliet MacLeod

  “That is true. But he chases mice in the basement of the castle, while his master shares his life and his bed with a beautiful princess. One would think that if the cat had the skill and cleverness to arrange those things for his master, he could also arrange such things for himself.”

  The quartermaster's expression changed, becoming serious and somewhat remote. “And you, Lady Weymouth? Which is your favorite tale?” It seemed he would not pursue further discussion of his service aboard the Jezebel.

  “Briar Rose,” I answered promptly.

  “You await your prince, someone to rescue you from this?” he asked, his voice soft, as he gestured around the room.

  I darted a glance toward Graves, finding him with his attention on the card game, ignoring Mr. MacIsaac and me. My gaze swept the rest of the room, finding no one with any sort of overt interest in our conversation. Still, I did not dare risk such a bald admission, so I merely nodded and arranged my features in a sad smile. While I dreamt of such a prince and such a rescue, I was fully aware of the fact that it would never come. I would likely serve in Madame Dupris's brothel until I was ragged and wrinkled. Then I would be turned out onto the streets, where no one would want me and I would slowly starve to death.

  “Perhaps he will come, my lady.” As if sensing the downturn in my mood, he stood and signaled to Ben, who was sitting with two of the house's girls. Tansy, I noticed, was not present. “The lady wishes to retire to her room,” he said to my guard.

  Ben nodded and led me away from the tavern. He cast longing looks behind him as we ascended the stairs, and I chuckled softly. “You don't have to stay,” I said to him. “Lock the door and return to the tavern.” When he looked as though he was going to object, I said, “I'll take care of Graves. Don't worry.” He hesitated until I shut the door firmly in his face. I heard the key turn in the lock and a murmured word of thanks before his feet pounded down the stairs. At least one of us would be having a pleasant evening.

  I went to the table and picked up Perrault's book, flipping through it until I found Mr. MacIsaac's story. I dragged the chair over to the windows again, bringing with me a candlestick, and sat down to re-read the story. When I finished it, I hoped that Mr. MacIsaac didn't identify too much with the cat; he shouldn't be satisfied with mice when he could have a princess of his own. He deserved at least that.

  That night, when Graves came to me with his carnal demands, Mr. MacIsaac's face was what I saw when I closed my eyes. It was his mouth I tasted, his hands stroking over my flesh, his body moving inside mine. I felt a flush of pleasure thinking about Mr. MacIsaac, stronger than I'd ever felt before, pleasure that made me feel as though I was being consumed by a raging conflagration that started low down in my belly and swept up my spine to explode like cannon fire in my head.

  Later, when Graves was finished, he lay next to me and said into the darkness, “I told you I could give you pleasure if you let me.”

  I made an acknowledging sound, content to let him think it was him who had made me feel as I had. It would be my secret, though, that it was his quartermaster instead who have given me my first hint at what Tansy and the other girls had been talking about.

  * * *

  The night before the Jezebel left port was an especially awful one. I wanted to spend time in the tavern, talking with Mr. MacIsaac, memorizing him—the sound of his voice, the smell of his body, his gestures, his expressions, the color of his hair and eyes, the texture of his hands—to fuel my daydreams. Graves, of course, wanted me all to himself and refused to take me downstairs to see his crew.

  I was feeling churlish and petulant, and did not submit meekly to the captain's attentions. I was rigid in his embraces, unresponsive to his touches and kisses, and lay beneath him like a wooden board, passive and distant. It frustrated him, probably even angered him, and he climbed off of me, his member limp and useless, dangling ignominiously between his thighs.

  “Damn you, girl!” he thundered and grabbed my arm to drag me out of my bed. He pointed to Ben's cot and threw on his breeches, hastily doing up the buttons before throwing open the door. “She's not to leave this room,” he told Amos as he passed him in the corridor and pounded down the stairs. Amos glanced into the room, where I was huddled in my shift atop Ben's cot. He merely arched a brow and went back to watching the stairs.

  Graves soon returned with Katie, one of the house's girls, and a bottle of rum. She resembled me a little—blonde, blue-eyed, slender—but was probably five hard years older. She glanced at me and then at the captain and shook her head sadly.

  “What's the problem, cher?” she asked Graves, sliding up to him, her hips swaying seductively. She reached out and trailed her fingers down his chest and I looked away. “Is le petit oiseau not doing her job tonight?” Little Bird was what Madame and the other girls had taken to calling me. It chafed.

  “No,” was Graves's gruff reply. “I want you to show her the proper way to service a man.” I heard his footsteps approaching me and then his fingers curled around my chin hard enough that I knew I would be bruised in the morning. He forced my head up and growled, “Watch, my lady. Perhaps you will learn something.”

  He drew Katie to his side and undressed her. He embraced her, kissed her, touched and stroked her, just as he did to me. She responded more than I ever did, with little grunts and soft moans. She was enjoying his touch and even returned it, kissing him and reaching for his flaccid member, stroking it firmly in her closed fist. I watched with sick fascination as it grew long and firm and stood up straight, the angry purple head brushing against the captain's navel.

  He pushed her to her knees in front of him and she smiled up at him before taking his length into her mouth. I looked away, horrified by her actions. “Watch her,” he barked and slapped me hard, my cheek stinging with the impact.

  I burst into tears but forced myself to watch as he thrust in and out of her mouth, his hands gripping her head as his hips pumped against her face. She treated this act as though she was devouring something delicious, licking and sucking with gusto. He certainly enjoyed it; he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, still grasping her head and pushing in and out of her mouth. Finally, with a terrible groan and a shudder, he thrust the full length into her mouth and held her head against him. She closed her eyes and parted her lips; I could hear her gasping and trying to breath around him. He withdrew from her mouth and took a deep swig from the rum bottle before handing it off to her. She sat back on her heels and drank deeply, swishing the wine around in her mouth before swallowing.

  He swaggered over to me and squatted down, taking my chin in his hand again. “That is how you please a man, you frigid bitch,” he growled at me and then shoved me backward, ripping the shift from my body and the quilts from Ben's cot. He threw them in the corner near the bed, leaving me naked and exposed. He led Katie to the bed and laid down with her, spooning her against his body.

  I huddled on the cot, shivering with cold, though I should have been feverish with the burning hatred that consumed me. I listened to Graves and Katie as he bedded her over and over, all night. She enjoyed it, I thought; the sounds she made and the fact that she was a willing participant, even climbing atop him and riding him at one point, sickened and disgusted me.

  Morning came and Graves and Katie left without speaking a word to me or casting a single glance my way. Once the door closed behind them and the key turned in the lock, I sprang from the cot and dressed quickly. Then I stripped the sheets from my bed and threw them into a pile in the middle of the room. When Tansy came with breakfast, I demanded she burn them to remove the stink of Graves's rutting.

  “I'll boil them,” she said practically. “La Metrès don't like no waste.” She gave me a gentle smile and bundled up the sheets, taking them with her as she left.

  The Jezebel left later that morning. I stood at the window and watched as it sailed out of the harbor. I hadn't seen Mr. MacIsaac again since we spoke last. I found I was upset at not being allowed to say farew
ell to the quartermaster. I decided in that moment that I could not stay in this place a single moment more. It would be the death of me.

  I sat down on the floor and let my legs hang out the window. The breezes stirred my skirts and teased tendrils of my hair loose from my braid. In the harbor, there were two ships taking on cargo—an unfamiliar brig and the Neptune, a merchantman out of Portsmouth, England. A nascent plan formed. The Neptune would be my savior. I watched the jolly-boats and saw the dock where the merchantman's cargo was stowed.

  I dressed quickly and found Ben's old haversack and stuffed it full of my precious books and some of my breakfast, the things I knew wouldn't go rotten too quickly—hard cheese, rolls, salted meat. Once it was filled, I went to the door and listened intently at it. The hall was silent and the house felt as though it was slumbering deeply around me. I tried the doorknob and found that it turned easily in my hand. Tansy must not have locked it when she left earlier with the sheets.

  I opened the door slowly, expecting Amos to be lurking there in the shadows of the passageway. To my surprise, the hall was empty. I stole out of my room and down the stairs, rushing but taking care be as quiet as I could. The courtyard was empty and only Old Man Turner, one of the town drunks who depended upon the largesse of the captains to keep him in his cups, was in the tavern, snoring in a heap near the hearth.

  I moved as fast as I dared out into the streets of Nassau, headed directly to the docks, not stopping to speak to any of the people who greeted me. I had to find a crate or box or something to hide in before all of the Neptune's cargo was loaded. I skirted around the tents on the beach; they were filled with pirates and whores, all of whom knew me and would inform Ben of my presence in the area, should he come looking. And he would come, just as soon as he woke and discovered that I was gone.

  Soon I reached the docks and made my way hastily to the piles of cargo. I found a crate that wasn't nailed closed securely and stole inside. I was surrounded by half-full sacks of grain. It smelled a bit like a cow's byre and I snuggled in, taking care to pull the crate's lid closed after me. It was dim, but light was creeping through the boards, not enough to read properly by, but enough that it wasn't as dark as pitch.

  I knew what I was doing put Ben's life in danger. It probably also endangered Tansy, but after the horrible night before and all the horrible months I'd endured, I couldn't stand one more day as Grave's prisoner. I felt no small amount of guilt over leaving this way, knowing what Grave would do to Ben and to Tansy, but the guilt I felt wasn't enough to keep me here. I was desperate enough to risk their lives; the only alternative was staying and I knew that would mean the end of my own life.

  Time passed. My crate was moved onto a boat and rowed out to the ship. I could hear the sailors talking around me, discussing meaningless things—what they ate the previous night, where the prettiest whores were, how much they missed their families back in England, the journey ahead. The rocking to and fro of the waves and the soft, sonorous sounds of the sailor's voices lulled me to sleep.

  IX

  On board the Neptune, Atlantic Ocean

  January, 1716

  When I awoke, it was dark and utterly silent. I must have been in the cargo hold of the ship. I was still rocking to and fro, though the motion was much less, confirming my suspicions that I was indeed aboard the ship. I wondered if we were at anchor still or if we had departed Nassau Harbor. I felt around beside me and located my haversack. I pulled out a roll and carefully broke it into quarters. Three of the pieces I put back; the other I nibbled at. I would have to strictly ration my food and figure out some way to get water without the sailors discovering me. Stowaways were treated as criminals; some were pressed into service, some were clad in irons, still others were thrown overboard. Since I was a girl, I wondered which of these fates would await me if I were found.

  After I ate my meager meal, I pushed up on the crate's lid, moving slowly lest it squeak as the nails came loose. It opened quietly and I climbed out and squinted into the darkness. I could just barely make out the shapes of other crates, barrels, boxes and sacks, stacked neatly side by side and one atop another. Definitely the cargo hold, then.

  I made my way over to a barrel and pressed my ear against it as I tried to discern its contents. It didn't slosh around so I guessed something solid, refined sugar or salted meat, perhaps. I went through four other barrels before I found something that sounded liquidy. I pried up the lid and was rewarded with the sweet scent of wine. I used my hand to sip directly from the barrel, making sure not to drink enough that I would be drunk. When my thirst was slaked, I fitted the lid once more and moved the barrel closer to my crate, dragging it inch by inch across the hold. Carefully rationed, my food and the wine should last for most of the journey home.

  Home. I grinned into the darkness, my excitement about finally seeing England again filling me with hope. I could smell the sooty air of London, feel the grass of Kensington Gardens beneath my bare feet. I could see Uncle Frederick's face when we were reunited; his smile would light up the city and his embrace would crush my ribs. I fell asleep that first night aboard with a sense of peace, something I hadn't felt for six months.

  It was impossible to tell how long I was hidden away in the hold. I ate—sparingly—when I was hungry, drank deeply from the wine barrel only twice a day, used a far corner for as a chamberpot, and slept whenever I was tired. There was no way for me to discern night from day, nor how much time actually passed. It could have been as few as two or three days or as much as a fortnight or perhaps even a month.

  I probably would have made it all the way to London undetected, if not for a storm. It scared me, made me think of the storm that had sunk the Resolution, and I screamed and sobbed, shaking like a leaf in my terror every time the ship listed too far to one side. The cargo hadn't been stowed away properly and the crates burst free from their flimsy ropes to roll all over the hold, smashing into each other and breaking open, spilling their contents across the deck. My own crate was pinned against the stairs, held there by a pileup of the rest of the cargo. I could hear water slowly seeping in through cracks in the hull and soon, it invaded my crate.

  Finally, the storm blew itself out and I was able to relax and get control of myself again. There was some three inches of water in the bottom of my crate and I suspected there was even more outside. The ship settled into gentle waves, rising and falling with a soothing rhythm. I couldn't get out of my prison, and I suspected that my wine barrel had been smashed. Unable to do much of anything else, I merely settled down to sleep after eating a bit of biscuit and salt pork.

  Voices woke me. My eyes snapped open and I was certain the sailors could hear my pounding heart over the sound of the waves slapping against the hull and the creaking of the ship.

  “Would you hark at this mess? Give us a bucket.”

  “Aye, it'll take weeks to clear it away. Who was supposed to stow the cargo?”

  “That'll be our Jimmy,” said the first voice. “Christ, it stinks down here. Help me shift this.” My crate suddenly moved and I made an involuntary squeak of fright.

  “Was that a bloody rat?” asked the second voice. “Open this crate. It came from inside.” The crate's lid lifted with a squealing of nails and dim lantern light poured in, revealing me to the two sailors.

  “Christ,” said the first sailor, crossing himself. His eyes were huge in the lantern light. “It's a ruddy girl!” He was a short, squat man with dirty blond hair. “She's a stowaway. Lord have mercy. Captain O'Reilly will want to have a word.” He reached into the crate and grabbed my arm, hauling me bodily out of the crate. “Come along, lass.”

  Sandwiched between the two sailors, I climbed the stairs to the captain's quarters, blinking in the bright sunlight. I tried not to look to closely at the stunned and dumb-founded looks on every face I passed, but it was difficult. I wondered what my punishment would be.

  The first sailor knocked on the captain's door and a gruff voice called out, “Enter!” Th
e door swung inwards and the sailor shoved me inside and then stood between me and the door. I looked at the captain, sitting stock-still behind his desk, and nearly laughed at his expression. He looked as though someone had smacked him in the face with a fish.

  “What's this?” he spluttered. “McGillie? Where'd you find her?”

  “Stowaway, Captain. Found her in a crate of flour sacks, down in the hold.” He leaned close and made sniffing noises like a harrier in a rabbit warren. “Smells of shit.”

  O'Reilly stood, straightened his waistcoat, and approached me. “Well, girl?” He said, staring down his nose at me. We were of the same height and he was obviously trying very hard to appear taller than me. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Before I could speak, McGillie interrupted. “I think I know her.” He grabbed my arm again and spun me towards him. Leaning in close, he squinted at me and brushed a greasy tendril of my hair out of my face, studying me intently. His eyes went wide. “Blimey,” he breathed and thrust me at O'Reilly. I noticed he made horns with his fingers and tucked them behind his back. “She's Graves's girl. The noble lass he stowed at the Earthly Delights.”

  “Christ,” O'Reilly cursed and shoved his hand up his face and through his hair, knocking his wig aside. “How far are we from Nassau, Mr. McGillie?”

  “Seven days, Captain. Shall I give the order to turnabout and go back?”

  “At once. And bring up some shackles from the brig. I won't lose Graves's prize and risk this ship or my crew.” McGillie nodded and hot-footed it out of the captain's quarters. The captain took me by the arm and forced me to sit down on his berth.

  “Please, Captain O'Reilly, my unc—er, father. My father is the Marquess Weymouth. I can pay you anything—”