As they talked, Savina and Zazu whispered together, and then, both agreeing they deserved a walk, slipped off down toward the beach. The sun was midway down to the horizon, and the water sparkled like a sheet of ice, pinpoints of light dancing on the crests of tiny wavelets. The beach itself was a crescent of white sand curving like the blade of a scythe between two rocky promontories. Savina marveled that she had never seen so many shades of blue: the pale aqua of the water, the celestial sky blue above them, the indigo as the two met at the horizon.
“Oh,” she whispered as her bare feet dug into the cool of the sand below the surface heat. “Oh, this is heavenly.” She stopped and wiggled her toes. A movement caught her eye, and she saw in the distance a figure clamber to the top of the rocky promontory on their left. She shaded her eyes and watched, in a moment identifying the figure. It was Anthony Heywood. “It’s Mr. Heywood. We should see if he’s been successful in catching any fish.”
She and Zazu moved across the beach toward the rocky outcropping in time to see the man jump into the ocean, a soaring dive that halted Savina in her tracks and caught her breath in her throat as she stared. “That looked terribly dangerous.”
Zazu gazed at her with curiosity in her dark eyes but said nothing.
They climbed together up the rocky surface to where Mr. Heywood had been in time to meet him as he clambered up the rock surface again. He was shirtless, and as he strained to pull himself up, Savina stared at the unaccustomed sight of wet, sleek muscles cording thick forearms and upper arms and felt a slow flush robe her body from forehead to bare toes.
“Mr. Heywood,” Zazu, with more presence of mind, said, and he looked up at them as he clambered to his feet.
“Uh, ladies,” he said, hastily grabbing his shirt and pulling it on over his wet skin. It clung, and as it dampened gave a very clear outline of his upper torso.
Seven
The flush on her cheeks burned a lovely shade of pink, Tony thought, gazing at the incomparable Miss Savina Roxeter as he buttoned his damp shirt—he had rinsed it out earlier to cleanse it of the turtle blood from his morning hunting expedition—and swept his wet hair out of his eyes. He should feel embarrassed that she had seen him in his undress, and at first he had been, but discomfiture had been replaced by an intriguing thrill of excitement fueled by the ready thrum of his body’s response to her awareness of him. No matter how much he told himself it was just that she had never seen a man’s nearly naked body before, his body insisted the attraction he had long felt toward her was returned.
And his own had heightened. At least when he had thought her lovely but brainless he could quell his passion, explain it to himself as mere physical attraction, the kind he had felt many times before. But now he knew her to be brave and intelligent and curious, and he was intrigued by the depths the young lady had so successfully kept concealed. It all fueled an uncomfortable physical response he must quell if he was to stay decent in the ladies’ presence.
When he glanced at her maid he saw amusement in her dark eyes. Miss Zazu was intelligent too, and observant . . . disconcertingly so. Her gaze flicked down over his body and then she smiled and winked at him.
“My deepest apologies, ladies, I . . . well, I was swimming.” And how idiotic that sounded, even to himself. He summoned his usual aplomb and, dripping with seawater, crossed the rocky surface to the small tidal pool shadowed by the rocks. “Actually I was celebrating a successful day with one last dive.” He reached down and pulled up part of the rope he had left with that morning.
“Fish!” Miss Roxeter exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
He examined his string of seven fish with pride. There were blue and black fish, the rope strung through their mouths and out their gills. “It was like being a boy again, but instead of a fishing pole and hook I used this.” He picked up a long stick from the rock by the tidal pool and showed them his makeshift spear, the long knife lashed on with another section of the invaluable rope.
“How ingenious,” Miss Roxeter exclaimed, reaching out and caressing the long shaft with naïve interest.
Tony swallowed and hastily let go of the spear, releasing it into her hand.
The maid, with a sly side-glance, asked Miss Roxeter, “Do you like Mr. Heywood’s spear?”
The young woman had caught hold of it and hefted it in her hand, closing her fingers tightly around the haft. “It’s very nicely designed but a little too thick for me to grasp properly.” She looked up at her maid’s choked laughter. “What is it, Zazu? Did I say something?”
“Nothing at all,” the maid said with another saucy wink at Tony.
“We should make our way back to our encampment, ladies,” Tony said, trying not to smile at the maid’s wicked grin. Her earthy imagination left him shocked but entertained. He thought she might be younger than her mistress, but of course, as a maid and previously in her Maroon village, she had not lived the sheltered life Miss Roxeter had.
“I suppose,” Miss Roxeter murmured.
“I’m willing to go on ahead with the fish if you wish,” he said, noting hesitation in her tone. He slung the string of fish over his back and picked up his boots from the rocky promontory before beginning his descent.
“No.” She sighed. “I know we have to go back and start dinner. This has been so delightful, this walk and . . .” She looked down at her bare feet, pink toes wiggling against the dark rock.
Tony glanced down at them and stared, mesmerized. Her feet were not especially small, but they were perfectly formed with smooth pink skin and delicate ankles visible beneath the hem of her dress. “And?” He looked up into her eyes.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
But as they climbed down the stone projection and started across the beach, Miss Roxeter still carrying the spear, the maid ran ahead and began to pick up scattered shells in her skirt, and his companion lagged. Finally she stopped and planted the haft of the spear in the sand. The breeze had picked up and her dark, tangled curls fluttered in the wind. She looked like some ancient sea deity, Tony thought, watching her, memorizing every freckle on her sun-kissed cheeks.
She gazed up to the entrance into the forest above the beach. “Why do some people feel it is all right to do nothing while others serve them? And they don’t care who does the serving as long as it isn’t them.”
“Do you mean . . . who do you mean?” Tony said, afraid to mention her fiancé and break the spell of amity they found themselves in. They had never exchanged more than a handful of words before being marooned together, but he felt at ease with her now that they were together alone. Everything had changed the moment they were cast upon the golden shore of their secluded little island.
“I’m speaking of Gaston-Reade’s dreadful sister, of course.” She looked up at him, searching his eyes, her own shadowed against the deeply slanting sun with her free hand. “Who else could I have meant?”
“Oh, Lady Venture. Yes, of course.” He dug his bare feet in the cooling sand and waited, for she clearly had more to say; he could see it in the pensive expression in her celestial eyes.
“I think that even though Zazu and Annie are maids, and perhaps the work would in the normal course of things be left up to them, this is an extraordinary circumstance, and we should throw our lot in together and all work.” She clasped the spear with both hands and leaned on it, gazing still up at the edge of the forest. “We could be so much more comfortable, Mr. Heywood. If we worked together we would have more food, more bedding, a better shelter . . . but instead, even though she sees me working alongside Zazu, Venture will not raise a finger, nor will she let her maid help, though the poor girl would like to, I think.”
Tony reached out and allowed his bare fingers to touch her hand. “Such is the world,” he said. “If we all worked together, how much better a world could we build?”
She gazed into his eyes and her own widened. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but it’s true. And yet each of us behaves as though the world was cons
tructed for ourselves, to give us what we desire.”
Zazu glanced back at them, and Tony took Miss Roxeter’s free arm. “We should walk while we talk, or Miss Zazu will get very far in front of us.”
She began to stroll again, dragging her feet in the fine sand.
“Lady Venture does seem to feel that she is owed something for simply being who she is,” Tony said, moving their conversation back to their peculiar situation. “It is her lot in life to be among the helpless, as I have often thought of all who need servants even for the most everyday tasks.”
Miss Roxeter was silent, so Tony went on.
“But it seems to me—and I have known her three years—she is unhappy most of the time, no matter where she is. Jamaica was too hot, London, once she is there, is too dirty and damp and the countryside is boring. This is too primitive and uncomfortable, Brighton too busy and crowded. She is always looking ahead to that which will make her happy.”
“But she has a fiancé. That’s what she came to Jamaica to obtain, isn’t it?” She looked sideways at him and searched his eyes.
Tony laughed out loud, thinking how refreshing Miss Roxeter was, and how outspoken. And he was glad that his employer’s habit of correcting her constantly and belittling her often hadn’t silenced her. “Well, yes, it is what she came to Jamaica for, since no one in London would have her. But we are not supposed to acknowledge that, you know.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “I never would in front of her.”
They began up the sloping sand to the fringe of palms that topped the crescent-shaped beach.
“You should make your case to Lady Venture,” Tony said, glancing sideways at his companion as they entered the shadowed palm forest behind Zazu.
“Perhaps.” She picked her way carefully over dead palm fronds and twigs.
“You sound reluctant.”
She shook her head. They caught up with Zazu and walked in silence the rest of the way.
Mr. Roxeter glanced up as they entered the little clearing that was their temporary home. “Savina! Where have you been?”
“Zazu and I were out walking, Father. We met Mr. Heywood and he has fish for our dinner!”
“Fish?” Lady Venture, patting at her brow with a delicate handkerchief, showed interest. “Finally something different to eat from that dreadful pork. I was beginning to feel quite ill. I have a delicate stomach, you know, and too much pork is bad for one’s digestion.”
“Good, then as you are so looking forward to fish for dinner, you may help me gut them, my lady,” Tony said. “I could use someone’s help.”
“Tony, you are quite out of order,” Lord Gaston-Reade said, looking up from his crude map.
Staring at his employer, Tony reflected on the many times he had had to bite his tongue quite literally to keep from retorting to the earl’s sometimes inane remarks. “I thought, sir, that your sister, since she is so hungry, might want to speed the process of making dinner by helping out in some way.”
“Vennie? Never!” Gaston-Reade said with a snort. “She couldn’t help. She would be quite useless and you would be sorry you asked. She’s never done anything in her whole life.”
Lady Venture, who had been looking smug at her brother’s support, glared at him, but seemed unable to offer any retort.
“I was merely being humorous, my lady. I shall, of course, do the honors myself,” Tony said, bowing and taking his catch a ways away from the encampment.
Dinner was a change, at least, everyone said, but Savina knew they had burned the fish due entirely to her own inattention—she hadn’t been able to keep her mind on the meal—and she was sorry after all the work Mr. Heywood had gone to. But he had kindly said he didn’t mind it overcooked at all, and that it was far preferable to undercooked. The turtle, too, was overcooked and tough, but all were ravenous, and even Lady Venture ate her meal in silence, a lovely change.
As she and Zazu tidied after dinner, she could not stop thinking about the day, and Mr. Heywood, and the unexpected sight of his half-naked torso and bare arms. In her mind’s eye she could see little details: the lashing of golden hair across his taut stomach, the blue veins wrapping over his thick forearms, the way the water droplets had trickled down his bare chest. Why such things were so fascinating she could not imagine, and wondered if she was quite normal.
About men she supposed she knew little or nothing but that they were different from women and that the marital bed was where one explored those differences. She had always supposed that men’s bodies must be roughly analogous to male animals, and so the act of intercourse must feature some details already familiar to her; she had a vague idea of what to expect. It was not something she anticipated greatly with Lord Gaston-Reade, but she wasn’t afraid. All married couples did such things, and if one wanted children, it was how one got them. And she did want children. She thought it would be great fun to have lots of rollicking babies.
But she had heard whispered among the married ladies of Jamaica that men liked such things that married couples did much better than women, and that they were filled with animal lusts, unpleasantly so at times, especially when they had too much wine. She had never seen any evidence of uncontrolled lust, even from the young men who had occasionally courted her, and certainly never from her fiancé, who had always been most circumspect and careful of her reputation and delicate feelings.
She had never felt anything in return but mild interest. When Lord Gaston-Reade proposed, her father had counseled her that it was by far the best proposal of marriage she would ever get, and since they had to return to London anyway—his time in Jamaica was done and his replacement already installed in the governmental office—she may as well return to England an engaged woman. It was by far preferable, he said, than to have to endure the marriage market and find another young man she could marry.
Marriage was her goal, of course, as it was for every young lady of her acquaintance, so it had sounded like sensible advice, and her fiancé had been polite and pleasant to her. Life promised to be interesting and enjoyable. An earl, the ladies of Jamaica assured her, was far above what she would have been expected to marry, as she was a plain “Miss” with no interesting family connections. Lord Gaston-Reade had pressed her hand most earnestly and said he begged the “honor” of her hand in marriage. He had then taken her in his arms and kissed her forehead, releasing her immediately after.
And she had not felt so much as a thrill of anticipation. That had been delayed until she had seen Mr. Heywood’s wet skin and muscled arms. Then she had wondered how it would feel to be held close and kissed. By him. It left her shocked at herself and nervous. It was so seldom she experienced any feeling she was not in control of, that she felt as she had on occasion as a child when ill, feverish and unlike herself.
His great kindness had relieved her nerves somewhat, but now all she could do was steal glances at him while he worked, remembering that beneath the layers of clothes—he had put his jacket back on over his shirt—there was a very interesting male physique. Gaston-Reade would look much the same, perhaps, unclothed, so why did she not wonder about that? Was it merest chance, simply because she had seen Mr. Heywood partially unclothed first?
The group was scattered, with Zazu and Savina working still, as had become the routine, at tidying the dishes and piling them back in one of the crates. Lady Venture was lying down on her pallet, turned away from the rest of them with Annie fanning her, Savina’s father had gone walking on the beach, having discovered an interest in shells sparked by Zazu’s collection, and William Barker and the earl were talking about politics.
Mr. Heywood had been working at something for some time, and he carried his creation over to Zazu and Savina. He set down his rough contrivance in front of them. “I was thinking, ladies,” he said as he took the pot Zazu had been scrubbing and set it down on his invention, “that it would be easier for you if there were some benches to put things on, rather than the dirty ground or back in the crates. You
should not have to pack and unpack each day to keep things clean.”
It was a crude bench of sticks lashed together with vines, and it kept the pot well up off the ground. Savina set a stack of tin plates next to the pot and clapped her hands.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Heywood; what an ingenious thing!”
“It will save us time, to be sure,” Zazu said.
He sat back, elbows on the ground, and said, “I was thinking that if I could find enough straight long sticks, I could replace these pallets of palm leaves with cots, at least for you ladies and Mr. Roxeter. It will help if you can sleep up off the ground, for it is so very damp at times.”
“Heavens, you don’t think we’re going to be here long enough for that, do you?” Lady Venture said, turning over and sitting up.
Lord Gaston-Reade looked up and said, “Tony, you are enjoying this camping adventure far too much. I was thinking that we ought to be doing something to be getting off this dreadful island, instead of sitting day after day and doing nothing.”
Savina had to hold back the retort that some of them may be sitting around doing nothing, but a few of them were very busy. She and Zazu exchanged looks.
“Perhaps that is so, sir, but we must be comfortable while here . . . or at least as comfortable as possible.”
Behind the mild words, Savina sensed a tension, and she watched the two men, waiting for another explosion. Anthony Heywood was now sitting erect and alert, and Lord Gaston-Reade stared at his secretary with an inscrutable gaze.
“I think it would be a mistake to get too comfortable,” the earl said. “A level of discomfort will make us strive to get off this wretched island.”
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