She was turned toward the mirror to confront her reflection, the two slave women standing back with hands folded before them. Another bride might have grinned at such a pretty picture—the way the soft pink dress complemented her honey-gold skin, or the enhancement of rouge staining her cheeks and lips, or the accompaniment of pure white pearls clasped around her throat and on her earlobes. But Arabella could only take stock of the differences between herself and the women standing behind her—both in the clean, starched uniform of house slaves, with only a small difference in their skin hues separating her from them. That, and the fact she’d been conceived by the man who owned this house and the acres upon acres of cane fields stretching on forever in the distance.
Beyond the immaculate house grounds, hundreds of slaves toiled, their backs broken out in a sweat, their feet tired, their fingers raw.
The identity of her father was what made her free while these others remained bound in captivity. Such a seemingly small thing, but it created a wide gulf between herself and them. That did not make her any closer or more acceptable to her half-siblings, who never let her forget that she was merely tolerated because of her father’s benevolence. Were he to die today, Arabella was certain they would cast her out without a second thought, leaving her to find her own way in the world.
Is this what my life is to be now; wed to Will for fear I may not be safe otherwise?
Despite having been a slave herself, her mother had commanded quite a bit of influence over her father. It was a dynamic that never ceased to baffle Arabella. The man was lord and master of everyone and everything within the acreage of Greenhill, including the woman he’d taken as a mistress. Yet, with some combination of the wiles of her body and the cunning of her mind, Leonora had managed to make the lives of those around her a bit easier.
No, she could not strike the chains of bondage off them. But she could advocate for the slaves of Greenhill—keeping children from being sold away from their mothers and staying the hands of cruel overseers. And for her daughter … she had ensured Arabella would never want for anything. She’d been given her freedom, as well as a small inheritance upon her mother’s death, which included the gown and the pearls she wore for a wedding ensemble. She’d been tutored and molded into a lady just like her half-sister, and she’d been sheltered from much of the cruelty of the world.
Arabella did not know how to feel about such circumstances. Should she be grateful that her mother had worked until her dying breath to ensure she would never want for anything? Or should she resent her circumstances when others would never have such chances?
She had few choices in life, despite her freedom and education. A mulatto woman was little better than a black one in the eyes of those inhabiting the island. If not for the fact that William wanted to marry her, she’d face dire prospects such as becoming some man’s mistress. She might find work, but being unprotected in the world would put her at risk for all manner of horrible things.
No … better she marry Will, who had been a friend to her since she’d been a girl. His plantation bordered Greenhill. As mistress of such a place, she would be in a position to do more than even her mother had done. As the lady of a fine house, she would command influence and because William loved her, he would heed her suggestions. She would be the wife of a planter, not the possession of one. It wasn’t the life she’d wanted, but it was the best she could have now that Drew was gone.
“Thank you. Tell Papa I’ll be down in a moment.”
The women dipped their heads in acknowledgment before making a silent retreat, leaving Arabella alone with the coming onslaught of tears. She had told herself not to think of Drew, but that was difficult given that she was marrying the man’s brother today. To the outside world, it appeared as if she’d finally recovered from the loss of the boy she had loved.
After a year of shunning close contact with anyone but Will, she’d begun trying to find some semblance of a normal life. She took walks and read books; she painted and visited with what few friends she had on the island. She attended church with her father and half-siblings every Sunday, and went along for dinners at other plantations, her father taking up various invitations as an excuse to talk island politics over sumptuous meals.
William had been instrumental in helping her move on, first serving as a faithful friend upon whose shoulder she could cry, and then evolving into a doting suitor. Arabella wasn’t certain when it had happened, but one day she had looked up to discover that his attentions had begun to lean toward the romantic. He visited her with flowers and gifts, and went out of his way to show her affection. She had resisted at first, her heart still broken and her nerves entirely too raw to abide the touch of someone else.
It had taken three years of persistence on Will’s part, but he had been so patient with her, so understanding.
“I love you, Bella,” he had told her as they’d walked along the deserted patch of beach bordering Greenhill. “I have for a long time, but … well, I suppose you will think me terrible for being jealous of Drew. The three of us grew up together, and as we grew older, I noticed just as well as he did how beautiful you had become. I couldn’t blame you for choosing him; the two of you were well suited. But, I could be good to you, Bella. I would treat you well and take care of you. I know it might feel too soon now, but when you are ready to consider your future, I hope you will take this into account.”
He cupped her cheek and leaned for a kiss, and this time she had allowed it. She’d been so lonely, and life without Drew had been a dim and dismal hell. She missed passion and laughter. She missed feeling treasured and having someone to call her own. She missed Drew, but the sea had taken him from her and he was never coming back. Would she die alone mourning a dead man, or would she be brave enough to consider what William was offering?
The kiss had begun sweetly, with soft touches of Will’s lips and the gentle caress of his fingers. It had swiftly become too much for her to bear, the young man snatching her against him with a desperate groan and plundering her mouth like a man possessed, dipping his tongue into her mouth and consuming her as if he’d been starved for the taste of her. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the kiss, and she certainly wasn’t some shrinking violet. But everything he’d done only reminded her of how much she missed Drew’s touch, and the way he’d kissed her, like some marauding conqueror taking what he wanted.
Arabella had pulled away from him with a gasp, filled with apologies. “I’m sorry, Will. It isn’t you, I just …”
His chest had heaved, his mouth reddened from the kiss and his cheeks flushed with ardor. “It’s all right, Bella. I understand, and I apologize for my fervor. I only … Christ, I’ve wanted you for so long. I have been just as lonely as you without Drew, and I … Please forgive me.”
Taking his hand, she had raised it to her face, laying her cheek in his palm.
“It’s all right. I think, if you are willing to be patient with me, I could come to return your feelings. You are so dear to me.”
He had kissed her once more, but slowly this time, with such gentleness that Arabella nearly wept. “I will give you all the time you need.”
And so he had. For two long years, he had waited, even making it clear he did not care about the intimacies she had allowed Drew. She was coming into her marriage a virgin, but by no means chaste. She and Drew had sneaked off to be together more times than she could count, and he had taught her a woman’s pleasure. Will had known about their secret trysts, as he’d been the one to lie for them on the rare occasion they’d come close to being caught.
None of it mattered to him. He loved her, he wanted her, and Arabella had no reason to refuse him.
Taking a deep breath and retrieving the handkerchief from up her sleeve, she dabbed beneath her eyes, careful not to smudge her kohl or rouge. Today was not a day for tears, it was a day for joy. She was marrying her dearest friend in the world. There would be no need to worry over her future, or what might become of her when her fath
er died. The man seemed as hale as ever, but nothing was guaranteed. Her mother had seemed healthy, until she hadn’t been.
No, Arabella would take no chances. A new future lay before her, and she would step gracefully into it and be grateful to have any such options at all.
Taking one last look in the mirror, she then made her way from the room. One gloved hand gripping the balustrade, she descended as gracefully as she could manage, her body suddenly overtaken by shudders. Through the large doors thrown open to the front steps and circular drive, she could see the waiting carriages—one for herself and her father, and one for her half-siblings.
“Ah, there you are, poppet,” said her father, turning to her with a bright smile. “We are ready and waiting, at your leisure.”
Arabella took his hand and allowed him to help her off the bottom step. Glancing up at Archibald Abbot, she experienced the usual tumult of confused feelings he inspired in her. The man had sired her, provided for her and her mother, and had doted on her from birth. But one glimpse at the fields stretching beyond the house grounds reminded her of the duality of his nature. He was a wealthy planter, one who traded in sugar cane harvested by the sweat of black brows and the bloodied fingers of people who looked like Arabella and her mother. People who had been torn from their homeland and forced to labor on pain of torment or death. They weren’t people to him, but commodities, just like the precious crop that had made him so exceedingly rich. What, then, did he see when he looked at her?
As he nestled her hand in the crook of his elbow, he seemed to see his daughter, his own blood. But she often wondered if she were someone else—some nameless mulatto who’d been sired by another man like him—would he see her with such eyes? Would he treat her as he did the countless mulattoes and quadroons who worked as his house slaves?
Shaking off those thoughts, she allowed him to lead her down the front steps to their waiting equipage. There was no use mulling over these questions on such a day. Besides, in a matter of hours she would be Will’s wife, and she knew very well how he felt about her. With him, she would have a place to belong.
A pale face appeared from behind the parted curtains of the second carriage—white powder adding a ghostly quality to her half-sister’s visage, a black beauty patch showing in a startling stain near her chin.
“Is her highness finally ready?” Eugenia whined. “Thank God, I thought I would just die from the heat.”
“Oh, do cease your squalling, Eugenia,” came a muffled male voice from inside the carriage. “We’ve barely been in here five minutes.”
Eugenia retreated, and Milton appeared, looking somber and older than his years in a powdered white wig tied back in a queue.
“But, we should hurry, else the poor man will think Bella has changed her mind.”
“God forbid,” Eugenia said with a little sniff. “Because, who else would have her?”
Arabella raised her chin and allowed her father to help her into her carriage, pretending not to have heard as Eugenia received a sharp scolding. She wished her father would not go to so much trouble to defend her, when it only made Eugenia despise her more. While Milton couldn’t not care less that his father had taken a black mistress—as so many planters were wont to do—Eugenia knew how it had upset her mother, and so had taken up the mantle of the dead woman’s hatred.
“Pay her no mind, poppet,” her father urged as the carriage door was closed. “Eugenia can rarely tolerate another girl being the center of attention, especially when that girl is you.”
“Then I am sure she’ll be glad to be rid of me,” she murmured, turning to gaze out the window. “With me out of the way, she’ll be the one true lady of the house.”
Archibald snorted a laugh, slouching a bit on the squabs of the rocking conveyance. “I must confess that the thought of seeing you leave Greenhill saddens me, poppet. I knew this day would come, though I must say I am pleased in your choice of groom. Throckmorton is a fine catch, and he will take good care of you. Your mother would be pleased.”
Would she? Arabella wanted to ask. But she remained silent, leaning forward to better see through the window. Dark skin stretched over the muscular backs of bare-chested male slaves, their sinewy arms working with the strength and skill needed to harvest the cane. Clusters of women worked to tie the stalks into bundles for transport, while the elderly and children pulled weeds and chased rats away from the valuable crop. Dark eyes peered at the carriage, some heavy with curiosity and others with outright disdain. She frowned, shaking her head as she realized her father had been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard a word of it.
“I’m sorry, Papa. You were saying?”
“I was simply expressing my relief that you’ve found a way to be happy again. I worried for you after that unfortunate business with Andrew. I know you cared for him, poppet, but—”
“He is gone, and I have no choice but to move forward.”
“Good,” her father said with a little nod. “Well, let’s not speak of such things just now. After all, today is a happy day. You are getting married, poppet.”
She forced a smile, though she could not conjure the joy she ought to feel. In truth, she was not happy and wasn’t certain she would be ever again. This day did not feel like one for celebration. It felt like a day of mourning.
“Yes,” she whispered, willing herself to feel something other than despair. “I am getting married.”
Chapter 2
Arabella’s hands shook as she walked down the aisle of St. Peter’s Anglican Church. With the eyes of the guests fixed on her, she approached the altar. Her fingers tightened around the tropical array of native island flowers making up her bouquet. The bright afternoon sun shone through the church’s large stained-glass windows, casting rainbow prisms of light against white limestone walls. Beneath one such window depicting the blessed virgin cradling her newborn son stood her waiting bridegroom.
Will looked as handsome as ever in a summer suit of powder blue silk with a matching waistcoat, the garment highly embellished with silver thread and gleaming buttons. Frothy white fabric showed at his wrists and throat, and a fresh shave accentuated the sharp line of his law and the breadth of his lush mouth. His hazel eyes gleamed with flecks of warm honey at the center, his expression one of pure admiration as he watched her approach. An understated wig was tied into an elegant queue at his nape, though he did not powder it as her half-brother did. The simple style and dark brown color matching his brows made the piece look as natural as his own hair and flattered his patrician features.
It made her feel better to lay eyes on him and see in his eyes such a lack of regret. She saw only love in his steady gaze, and drew on it for succor. Unlike her, he came to their marriage without reservation. He had always been the steady one, guiding her through grief and back to life. She would continue to look to him in the days to come—a soothing balm to her pain.
She released a sigh of relief when she reached his side without tripping or otherwise embarrassing herself. Will accepted her hand from her father and gave her a brilliant smile as the ceremony began. Arabella tightened her hold so much it was a wonder she didn’t break his fingers. But he gave no indication that he noticed her viselike hold or her trembling as the priest began to speak, his deep droning voice echoing from the high ceilings.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God …”
Her head began to swim as the weight of what she was about to do fell onto her with crushing force. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, her blood rushing in her ears and drowning out all other sound. She could see the lips of the priest moving, but heard none of his words. Will’s handsome face swam before her, and she feared she might grow faint. He squeezed her hand, keeping her with him, though her mind retreated farther and farther from the proceedings the longer they went on.
A sudden noise from outside grabbed her attention and she flinched. Will’s eyes widened, and he followed the path of her gaze to the double doors le
ading outside. The sound was very distant, muffled through the thick limestone walls. The priest had gone silent, seemingly caught off guard by the sound as well.
Had that been … gunshots?
After a long moment passed in silence, Will cleared his throat and turned back to the priest.
“Please go on, Father.”
The priest gave a nod. “William Albert Throckmorton III, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to have and to hold …”
Arabella swallowed past the lump rising in her throat and tried to force some movement into her heavy, useless tongue. In a moment, it would be her turn to speak and any hesitation on her part would shame both her and Will in front of their guests. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass him after all he’d done for her.
Her groom’s voice rang out clear as a bell, breaking through the haze of her tortured thoughts. “I will.”
Dear God, it was her turn. Her knees weakened as the priest turned to her.
“Arabella Katherine Baines, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of—”
The priest drew in a sharp gasp as the sounds came again, far closer and unmistakable. The crack of gunfire, this time followed by the outcry of men’s voices. Brow furrowed, Arabella looked to the doors, wondering what on earth could be happening out there. It was far too early in the morning for any sort of drunk and disorderly conduct from the taverns, but such happenings weren’t unheard of. Or, perhaps some criminal had found himself at the mercy of Jamaica’s auxiliary militia.
Her guests murmured to one another, some sending nervous glances to the doors as if they expected the conflict to spill over into the church.
Will’s thumb stroked her wrist, the touch soothing even through the layers of their gloves. He turned to the priest and squared his shoulders.
“It is nothing to trouble ourselves over. Do go on.”
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 3