Mr. Aykroyd tightened his grip on her arm and tugged her forward. “No,” he said shortly. “Jean Pierre La Crosse is not married.” He opened his lips, then frowned and clamped his mouth shut, refusing another word.
Bristol’s relief was clouded with bewilderment. Why? Why, then, didn’t Jean Pierre speak to her of tomorrows?
Mr. Aykroyd deposited Bristol on the rear quarterdeck and stamped away after leveling a hard look at La Crosse.
Jean Pierre lifted an amused brow at Mr. Aykroyd’s retreating back. “Did you two have a spat? Neither of you look too cheerful.”
“No,” Bristol snapped. She turned away from Jean Pierre’s grin, angry that her knees went weak whenever she saw him. Confusion swirled in her mind, but since she couldn’t possibly sort it out here, not with him standing so close, Bristol pushed the dark questions out of her thoughts. She sighed.
“Come, now,” La Crosse coaxed, “it’s not a day for deep sighs.”
Indeed he was right. Overhead a glorious sky stretched above the masts. The sails strained under a brisk warm wind, cupping full. And Bristol noticed the Challenger was making good time, cutting through glassy smooth waters at a smart clip. The day was filled with brilliant colors and tangy salt air to lift her spirits. Bristol could almost taste the promise of early summer.
She looked down the length of the ship and saw that most of the men labored in shirtsleeves; only the officers retained their jackets.
“I have a surprise for you,” Jean Pierre announced, taking her arm and leading her to the rail. “Look there.” He pointed to the sky, wisps of dark hair blowing about his face.
Bristol shaded her eyes and blinked up at an expanse of blue, seeing nothing but a flotilla of white cloud puffs and a wheeling gull. She looked at Jean Pierre. “I don’t see anything...” Bristol froze for an instant; then her head snapped up. The bird! She stared at the screeching gull circling in the sky and realized she hadn’t seen a bird in nearly two months.
“Aye.” Jean Pierre smiled. He extended a spyglass and focused toward a point on the horizon. “Look here and you’ll see the shoreline of the Isle of Wight. We’ve entered the channel.”
Bristol looked at him; then she slowly took the glass and held it to her eye. A line of brown appeared in the glass. She stared for several minutes, hardly seeing what she appeared to study so intently. “How...?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “How long before we reach Gravesend?”
Jean Pierre shrugged and accepted the glass, turning to the rail. “Two days. Three at the most. If the wind holds, I’d say two.” He trained the glass on the Isle of Wight, not seeing the spasm twist Bristol’s pale face.
She sank to her stool and blinked at her hands. Master Boyd had to call her name twice before she looked up. “I brought you a glass of wine, mistress.” He smiled shyly, extending the glass.
“Thank you.” Bristol managed a weak smile. Master Boyd still wore her blue mitten over his stump, even though Bristol guessed it might be itchy and uncomfortable in the warming weather. “Will you be glad to get home?” she asked, forcing herself to speak.
Master Boyd looked surprised. “Home? This is my home, mistress. With the captain and all the others. They’s more family than any I ever had. Me mum threw me away, mistress. Left me for dead on the steps of a great house.” He turned to leave.
“Wait!” Startled, Bristol peered into his angelic face; a single blond curl fell across his forehead. “That’s terrible! What happened to you?”
“The lady of the house took me in, and the servants raised me. Good to me, they was. When I was old enough, the lady’s son took me to sea.” He waved the mittened stump toward Jean Pierre. “And I been with him ever since. The captain, he don’t try to run me life, mistress. He knows to respect a man.” The boy’s thin chest swelled, and Bristol hid a smile at the thought of this child fancying himself a man. Master Boyd shrugged small shoulders. “I like the city life for a time; then I have me a hankering for the sea.”
Bristol nodded, wondering whose words he parroted—Mr. Aykroyd’s? She waved as he scampered down the stairs, returning to his duties as nursemaid to the men ill with scurvy.
A sudden thought nibbled Bristol’s mind, and she called out, but Master Boyd had disappeared into the hold. What lady had taken him in? Marie La Crosse? Considering Master Boyd’s age and English accent, that didn’t seem possible. Yet he clearly had meant Jean Pierre as the lady’s son. And that wasn’t possible.
Bristol lifted a puzzled glance toward Jean Pierre, watching the wind flutter his collar around his strong face. An hour ago she’d told herself she knew him. But she didn’t know him at all. There were so many unanswered questions. She wondered if anyone really knew Jean Pierre La Crosse.
Her sad eyes shifted toward that distant point where the Isle of Wight signaled an ending. The voyage was nearly over. The knowledge weighed against Bristol’s heart like a lump of granite.
11
Throughout the next two days, the last two days, Bristol knew she behaved badly. Emotions ruled her conduct, rather than intellect. She acted impulsively, responding to an ebb and flow of feelings she couldn’t fully understand. Unshed tears pricked the back of her eyelids, and she paced the captain’s cabin, alternating between anger and despair, made worse because she couldn’t pinpoint a focus for either.
Gradually the turbulence of her emotions settled on Jean Pierre La Crosse. The mere thought of him acted to spark a deep anger, the motivation for which Bristol refused to examine in depth. She wanted him to spend every possible moment of their last days with her. Yet when La Crosse appeared with an hour to spare, she lapsed into a sullen, reproachful silence, driving him away.
For the first time since she’d begun sharing his cabin, Bristol turned her back to him in bed. She lay tense and rigid, almost daring him to touch her. And when Jean Pierre lightly stroked her naked shoulder, Bristol shrugged him away with an angry flounce; she squirmed close to the wall and away from his warm body. Jean Pierre hesitated; then Bristol felt him roll on his back, and soon she heard the even rise and fall of his breath. That La Crosse slept while she could not raised a fury in her breast, and it required enormous control not to spin and pound him with her fists.
Instead, she lay stiff as a plank, fighting the sting of tears and promising herself she would not cry. Her stormy eyes stared into the darkness and her mind felt frozen.
After a second day of restless pacing, Bristol collected her scattered belongings and stuffed them into her trunk. She slammed the lid shut and dusted off her hands. But instead of feeling better for her decision, she felt worse.
When La Crosse appeared for the evening meal, Bristol was waiting in the desk chair, holding her pewter cup tightly. She looked up with a pale, stubborn face. “I want to return to my own cabin.” A challenge lay in her tone and in her eyes.
La Crosse’s smile faded. He stood wide-legged, with his hands fisted on his hips. “Very well,” he said thinly. They waited in strained silence for someone to respond to his rope tug.
Refusing to look at him, still Bristol felt his brooding eyes watching her over the rim of his wineglass. She frowned at the cup in her fingers, then pushed the mug deep inside her trunk. She’d expected La Crosse to make her stay; she hadn’t thought he’d let her go so easily. The silence in the cabin was thick and stifling. Dimly Bristol understood she had attempted to manipulate a man who would not be maneuvered by ploy. Understanding her mistake, she considered giving up this silly idea and flinging herself into his arms, maybe giving way to the tears just beneath the surface. Did she really want to spend their last night together in the other end of the ship? Alone? Bristol sighed. She’d gone too far. Now her pride wouldn’t allow a backing down.
“Will you tell me what this is all about?” La Crosse asked. Bristol heard the thickening of his accent that signaled anger.
“I think you know,” she snapped, looking at the darkening waves outside the windows, looking anywhere but into his gray
eyes.
La Crosse drained his glass and poured another, slamming the wine bottle against the table. “Why is it women always fall back on that phrase? Why do all of you turn a problem into a guessing game?” His anger exploded into open frustration.
“Is your experience with women so vast, then?” Bristol replied acidly. She sounded petty and waspish and jealous, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Aye,” he answered flatly, and Bristol flinched. “And experience has also taught that nothing is ever resolved in this frame of mind.” He strode to the bed and removed his boots, tossing them to the floor.
Bristol listened to the very familiar sounds with a twist of her heart, but she kept her eyes steadfastly toward the windows. “I think you know what’s troubling me, and if you choose not to admit it, that’s your right. You’re the captain and you can have everything to suit yourself, can’t you?” Bristol’s hands shook, and she wished she could stop the outpouring of ugly words tumbling from her lips, but she could not. In her own pain, she sought to wound and to hurt him.
Bristol felt his stare. “Aye,” he said sharply. “That is right. But I remind you, it is you who refuses to talk.”
Neither spoke further, and in the silence, Bristol heard footsteps responding to the rope pull. She stood up, smoothing her apron, angry at the tremble in her fingers. She wished Jean Pierre would take her into his arms and not let her go. Her heart called out to him.
But La Crosse took the chair she’d vacated and bent over his desk, shuffling piles of charts and papers. When the knock came at the door, he lifted a dark face and thundered, “Enter!”
Mr. Aykroyd looked from Bristol to Jean Pierre, and his smile vanished. “Aye, sir?”
Jean Pierre waved his hand. “Take the lady and her trunk to the passenger cabin.” Dipping a quill into the ink well, La Crosse leaned over his papers without glancing at Bristol.
Her cheeks flamed crimson. So he would dismiss her like a naughty child without a word of good-bye. She lifted her chin and swept through the cabin door with a grand show of pride—dismally suspecting he hadn’t looked up to see it. Mr. Aykroyd followed swiftly, closing the cabin door behind him. His face tightened with concern.
Taking Bristol’s rigid arm, Mr. Aykroyd forced her to walk slowly. “Do ye want to talk about it?” he asked.
“He doesn’t care about me!” Bristol blurted. She dashed a hand over her eyes and swallowed a persistent lump. “We’re almost there, and he hasn’t said...”
Mr. Aykroyd sighed and shook his head. “Ye’re wrong, gel. He cares. More than ye know.”
Bristol paused, hope flaring in her damp eyes. “Did Jean Pierre say something to you? Anything?” she whispered.
Mr. Aykroyd patted her fingers awkwardly, gently disengaging her gripping hand. He led her onward. “He doesn’t have to say anything, gel. Every man jack on this ship what knows the captain knows he cares for ye. Don’t ye recall my telling that he never took a lady to his cabin before?” He pressed her hand and curled it around his arm.
Together they stepped onto the deck, brilliant with the reds and golds of a dying sunset. Bristol didn’t notice. “If Jean Pierre cares for me, Mr. Aykroyd, then why doesn’t he tell me so? Why hasn’t he said anything about what happens next? About...” Pride held her tongue, and she couldn’t go on.
Mr. Aykroyd looked toward the horizon, his thick brows coming together in a fierce frown. “He has his reasons, gel; if ye’re meant to know them, ye will.”
Bristol lowered her head, feeling rebuked. Mr. Aykroyd had no easy answers; perhaps there were none. Blindly she followed his lead. But her thoughts and heart remained behind in the captain’s cabin.
And when they halted in the passageway before her cabin door, Bristol looked at it with dull surprise. She didn’t remember walking the length of the ship. At some point she saw that Mr. Speck had joined them; he nodded to her and took up his position in the hallway. Smiling uncertainly, Bristol turned and choked on the stale, musty odor rushing from the cabin when Mr. Aykroyd pushed open the door. She’d forgotten how dank and dark the small cabin was. Mr. Aykroyd lit the wall lamp and paused, reluctant to leave.
“Ye can swallow yer pride, gel, and spend yer last night on board in comfort.” His blue eyes worried at her face. “They’s no cause to stay here,” he added softly.
“Thank you, but I can’t... I can’t go back.” Two men shoved her trunk through the door, bumping it against Jane’s. Bristol hadn’t noticed when Mr. Aykroyd stopped to give the order.
“Well,” he said, “if that’s the stand ye take.” Mr. Aykroyd sighed and tugged a puff of white hair. “Someone’ll bring ye a bite soon. But I doubt ye’ll take to it.” And then he was gone, leaving Bristol alone in the cramped, dim cabin. She looked around, drew a breath, then sank to the edge of her cot and covered her face with her hands.
When the evening meal arrived, Bristol gulped in dismay at the sight of moldy sea biscuit and suspicious-looking salt beef. No wonder so many of the crew were down with scurvy and other illness. How could they eat this? And what did it do to their stomachs? She shoved the trencher away and threw herself on the cot, grimacing at a rock-hard mattress and thin pillow. How quickly she’d grown accustomed to a better way of life.
After a moment, Bristol swung up and opened her trunk, searching until her fingers closed around the pewter cup. Lying back on the cot, she turned the little cup in her hands. What was her family doing tonight? Did they still think about her? Had Noah plowed the fields yet for sowing? Were Hannah and Charity putting in the kitchen garden?
A bitter wave of homesickness weighed Bristol’s heart. She felt miserably alone. Rejected and abandoned to a strange country, a new, unknown way of life. After years of warmth and acceptance, the rejection she now experienced brought a new pain. A pain that filled her mind and body with a persistent ache.
Slowly the night passed, filled with sore memories of a small New England house and the people in it. Occasionally her thoughts flew to the man at the opposite end of the ship, but each time Bristol caught herself, she wrenched away from the angry confusion his image stirred. Continually she insisted that she didn’t care about Jean Pierre La Crosse; he’d introduced her to the pleasures of the body, and he’d made the voyage a pleasant one by his companionship and charm. That was all. No emotional attachment existed. Bristol sighed, wishing she could convince herself of this. Each time she assured herself that she didn’t care about Jean Pierre, the words carried a tinny note of falsehood. And hurt.
Sometime during the long restless night Bristol must have dozed. When she opened her eyes, the wall lamp had been dimmed and someone had removed the trencher of untouched food. Probably Mr. Aykroyd, Bristol thought with a weary yawn. She stretched and wondered what time it was; in the dark, windowless cabin, she couldn’t tell if it was day or night.
Standing with a resigned sigh, Bristol brushed the tangles from her long red hair and tied the curls beneath a fresh dust cap. For a moment she considered changing from the clothes she’d slept in, but decided she lacked both energy and interest. Let Aunt Prudence take her as she was—Aunt Prudence didn’t promise to be any bargain either.
Mr. Aykroyd unlocked her door and waved two men inside to remove the trunks. “We’re nearly in the harbor, gel.” He gestured to the men. “Take both the trunks topside.”
Bristol blinked, and her heart leaped in her breast. “What time is it?” She patted her pocket, where Noah’s purse of coins clinked reassuringly. She couldn’t carry her cup for fear of looking foolish, but Noah’s purse provided her the link with home she suspected she’d need to endure the day.
“Nearly noon,” Mr. Aykroyd answered. “Careful, there!” he roared at the men, his face darkening. “If either of those trunks gets busted, so do yer heads!”
Noon! Bristol started in disbelief. She must have tossed most of the night, dozing sometime near dawn. And now they were almost to Gravesend. Nervously she smoothed her rumpled gown, seeing the tremor in
her fingers. Worries and fears she’d suppressed during the last weeks leaped into her mind with fresh vigor. What was England like? And Aunt Prudence? Would she get along with her unknown aunt? How harsh a woman was Aunt Prudence?
More important, Bristol wondered if La Crosse would appear to say good-bye. She simply could not believe he’d let her go without saying something... without telling her they would meet again. She bit her lip. And what would she answer?
The minute Bristol stepped onto the upper deck, she knew La Crosse would have no opportunity to seek her out. The ship vibrated with frenzied activity. Every hand worked with single-minded concentration, guiding the Challenger into Gravesend harbor.
Mr. Aykroyd positioned Bristol at the rail near the waist of the ship, leaving Mr. Speck as guard, then hurried to join La Crosse on the forward quarterdeck. Bristol closed her eyes, and her mind threaded through the noise and voices until she found the one she longed to hear. Jean Pierre’s strong voice roared orders above the din throughout the ship, and it seemed to Bristol that his accent had never been thicker.
Releasing her breath in a disappointed rush, Bristol understood no farewells would pass between them. She turned listlessly to the rail and looked across the narrowing distance, hearing the leadsman sing out fathoms as the Challenger slowly moved into Gravesend harbor. Ships of varying size dotted the water more thickly than Bristol would have guessed possible; the sky was pierced with hundreds of dark masts rocking at anchor. Between ships and docks the waters swarmed with longboats, and the air rang with men’s curses and shouts and the noise of penned animals and horses on the wharves and the buzz of hawkers demanding attention for their wares. The dockyard teemed with an amalgam of bustling activities. Rough men with rougher manners crowded the wharves, sweating over heavy nets and barrels of cargo, and here and there disreputable women wove through the mob, wearing hard and used faces and exchanging bawdy jests with the men.
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