by Claudy Conn
“What I suspicion is this, Miss Heather. If this be a French yawl, she may be putting in for one of the islands. We might yet be able to slip away when she docks if we can stay hidden here behind the grain bags.”
“Oh, Bunky, I don’t believe you have thought this out. We can’t stay holed up here for days and perhaps weeks on end. We shall starve…and we need drinking water. We must present ourselves to the captain and pray he is a merciful man.”
“That be a queer start if ever I heard one,” Bunky snorted. “They ain’t merciful…these Frenchmen. Didn’t ye hear what they be doing to their own? Taking their heads off without a care. Danged if I know what we can or can’t do, but I ain’t showing meself any time soon.”
He was adamant and she could see he had made up his mind. She decided to let it go for a bit longer. Sooner or later, his thirst and hunger would ease his resolve.
She waited another twenty minutes as they sat in silence and listened to the seamen above them rattle off in French. They seemed a jolly crew and she tried again. “Bunky…I think these sailors will be kind, and you must be hungry by now. I know I could eat an entire table full of food.”
“The sharks are hungrier…and that is all we’ll end up as, food for the sharks,” Bunky insisted.
Heather sighed and gave it up. She would not go against his will. If he was right, it would mean that she would be the cause of whatever harm was done to them. “Very well. We will try it your way.”
Soon, for the lack of better activity, they both drifted off again and when they next woke, no more light showed through the cracks of the hatch door.
* * * * *
Chaos reigned at Ravensbury Castle. Godwin couldn’t get himself together. Sara wasn’t feigning her injury. She couldn’t walk. Her fall had crippled her.
The doctor came and went, but in the end, he gave it as his considered opinion that her ladyship would probably never walk again.
Godwin’s hate for Sara permeated every ounce of his being, but he was a compassionate man, and this news was a terrible blow.
His plans, his life was over.
He could not divorce Sara now. He could not do that to a disabled woman, no matter how much she deserved it, no matter how much he hated her.
Still, he would find Heather and he would bring her back, and if they had to live in sin, providing Heather did not object, so be it.
As soon as he was able, he made his way to the vicar and discovered not from Heather’s uncle, but from Mabe the cook that Heather had been sent out alone and without very much money.
She would go to the cottage, he thought immediately. Hope rose in him. All he could think was let her be safely at the cottage, waiting for me.
She simply had to be at the cottage. It was with joy that he galloped his horse across the downs to the small creamy colored stone building with its thatched roof.
He jumped off his horse while the animal was still moving and hurried to open the door, but Heather was not there.
Sara, however, had made an error. She had forgotten to dispose of Heather’s portmanteau. Her baggage sat still where she had left it, unpacked and untouched.
He ran his hand through his hair and his thoughts were frenzied. Where was she? Had someone taken her? Footprints in the dust told him that was indeed the case. Who had done this? Where had they taken her?
He went outside and found tracks in the soft earth. A woman’s boot…Sara no doubt, and two men had been here. His beloved had been abducted.
He took to horse, slowly making his paces this time, and was hailed by Farmer Burns, so he stopped for the man, though he was impatient with distress.
“Well, now, yer lordship. ‘Tis that glad I am to see ye.”
“Yes, thank you, how is the family, Burns?” Godwin returned absently.
“Well, they be well, aye, that they be. Wanted to let ye know, I saw her ladyship the other afternoon, riding over the downs toward Land’s End, but she didn’t note me as she passed,” he mused out loud, and scratched his weathered beard.
Godwin turned his head sharply. “You say you saw her ladyship…here…?”
“Aye, going in the very direction ye jest came from…where that pretty little cottage sits. She had two sailors with her,” the farmer answered, and gave him a very direct look. “I had an uncomfortable feeling about it, that I did.”
Godwin’s heart sank in his chest. This confirmed it. Sara had abducted Heather. The information that two seamen had been with her was unwelcome. Had they taken Heather to the port, and if so, what had they done with her?
“Thank you, Burns, thank you,” he said as he turned his steed sharply for home. The port was too large to offer answers without more information. He had to see Sara and get to the bottom of this before he could hope to find Heather.
He was burning with anger, but this time, he was in control. He had no choice. If he was to find his Heather, he needed to think clearly. He made his way up the main staircase to his wife’s room, and there he entered.
Sara was sitting up in bed, reading. She put down the book at his entrance and demanded harshly, “What do you want?”
“Where did they take her, Sara? I know most of it now. You were seen. You might as well tell me the rest.”
She laughed, and her tone lashed with bared claws. “Oh, very well, why not? I should like to see the look on your face when I tell you…because, by now, your precious tart has been bedded by a dozen men!”
Godwin closed his eyes. The meaning of this was not lost on him. Heather had been abducted and sold. His instinct was to kill Sara and relieve his pain. He wanted to throttle her until her eyes bulged. He wanted to pick her up and throw her out the window.
He controlled himself. His hands formed fists at his sides and his voice was low and rasping. “Indeed, do tell me more.” He needed the details if he was to find his dear-heart and bring her home.
“She was taken by Devonshire smugglers to France. There she was sold to a bordello.” Sara eyed him with glee.
Shooting stars took over Godwin’s vision. His precious Heather, carrying his child, subjected to such treatment. Would Heather be forever scarred? He would save her, he would bring her home and cherish her…he would drive the memory of the bordello out of her head. He would go to France and save her.
A buzzing sound drummed in his head. A sensation of nausea threatened, and his powerful legs nearly buckled beneath him. The thought of his Heather being subjected to this treatment was on him. All of it on him. His fault, all his fault.
And then he saw the sneer on Sara’s face. How could he stand for it? It was more than flesh and blood could bear. He took a step towards her and saw fear cross her face. She knew he was going to kill her then.
A small voice, a boy’s voice at his back called him to order, “Sir…sir,” Roderick cried out, and this got to Godwin as nothing else could. Roderick had, until the fateful night he had heard that he was a bastard, always called him papa…now it was always sir.
Godwin loved Roderick, but saw the lost look in the boy’s eyes and was saddened by it. He turned away completely from Sara and touched the boy’s fine head of black curls—gypsy curls, but it didn’t matter. The boy was his son.
He had to get away. If he didn’t, he believed he would actually kill Sara, and that was something he could not do to Roderick. She was an awful mother, but he couldn’t take her away from Roderick.
Godwin left the castle that night. He had but one person he could go to for help. They had been friends since childhood. It was to Captain John Pearson he went to. He stood pounding down John’s door, near to breaking it, blasting his friend’s name for both heaven and hell to hear and bear witness to his pain.
“John, for mercy’s sake, John!” Godwin raged outside the door.
His friend appeared and Godwin broke down.
* * * * *
Roderick was but a boy. He watched Godwin’s departure from the castle with something akin to longing. He adored the man he had b
elieved was his father. Truth to tell, he loved him a great deal more than he loved his mother.
He knew more now, understood more. He heard the servants talking and listened to every word. He realized his father loved another woman outside their home. He knew that his mother had done something awful to that woman—wicked even.
He wasn’t sure what a bordello was, but he felt bad, very bad that his mother had sent this woman against her will to a place his father…who was not really his father, thought was evil.
He had heard it all and had understood a great deal for a boy his age.
He had seen pain on Godwin’s face. Godwin may have called him a bastard, but he still treated him like a son. All these facts swirled around in the young boy’s brain and came to rest in one place. Godwin was a good man who had married his mother and had loved him like a son, but he wasn’t Godwin’s son.
Roderick stared at his mother. His mother was to blame for everything, but she was now helpless and crippled. He had a young boy’s innocence and went toward her to comfort her, hoping to derive some comfort himself. He took on a man’s work that day saying, “It is all right, Mother. He will forgive us.”
She stared blankly at him for a long moment, incapable of understanding what he felt, what tortures he was himself experiencing, and her voice was cold with contempt when it came. “Your father was a gypsy, you need to know that. How dare you wish for Godwin’s forgiveness? You stupid little bastard. Get out!”
And thus, it was confirmed.
His mother had never really loved him. In the past, he had an overabundance of Godwin’s love…and it didn’t matter how little attention he received from his mother. Now, however, he saw a future with a coldhearted mother who did not love him, and hoped that come what may, Godwin would still go on loving him.
His young heart split open and a scar formed as he ran out of the room. He would not let her see him cry. He ran outside and into the weather, brokenhearted, rejected, lost, and a part of who he would be as a man took shape that night.
~ Ten ~
THIS EXPERIENCE HAD TAKEN THE gentle spirited Heather and reshaped her. She felt an anger spur her into bravery. She was ready for a fight, come what may. It was with some authority that she finally said, “That is it, Bunky, no more. We shall suffer no longer.”
“What mean you, Miss Heather?” Bunky grumbled as he tried to stretch out in his cramped position.
“Listen to me, young man. Night has turned into day and day into night. We are weak with hunger. There is a stench…even our own stench in this awful compartment. We will die of starvation and thirst if we stay here, so we will not stay here any longer. Do you hear me? Will they make us walk the plank? My instinct says no. This is not a smuggler’s vessel. If it was, we would have already reached an English port and been done. No, this is a private vessel bound no doubt for the Indies. We cannot stay here any longer. Sooner or later, they will need grain, so we might as well show ourselves now.”
“Aye then, I’ll not argle-bargle with ye if ye be that determined. Might as well get it all over with. Like ye say, they are bound to find us here anyway. Mayhap if we come clean and offer to do a fair share of the work above?” he answered in a resigned tone.
“Indeed, for if we are to be fed to the sharks, so be it, but I think, as you say, we can offer to work.”
Bunky climbed up on a pile of sacks and pushed the hatch door. It opened wide with a loud squeaking sound and then thumped onto the decking.
Evening was upon them, but even so, there was still enough light that came through the opening, causing both he and Heather to shield their eyes for the moment. After he acclimated to the dim light, Bunky pulled himself up by his forearms and peered out. He released a sigh of relief to find no one in their immediate vicinity. He slid back down and turned to Heather and whispered, “There now…” He gave her his hand. “Use me knee as ye pull yerself up.”
Heather was determined not to show any signs of the fatigue and weakness she felt. She took hold of his hand, noting to herself how tightly he held her, how determined he was to make certain he aided her ascent. He had such a good heart, she thought.
She hoisted herself up by planting a foot on his thigh and allowing him to shove her upward. She slapped her hands onto the decking and dragged herself the remainder of the distance, lying flat there as she recouped. Luckily, she lay in the shadows and knew she looked more like an eerie blob than a woman.
A French crewman standing some space away made a sound and Heather knew he would find them. She watched as he put a hand to his heart and said, “Nom de dieu!”
Heather closed her eyes as she scurried backwards, further into the shadows. This was the moment of truth. Would the Frenchman shoot?
Her swift and unexpected movement sent Bunky off balance. He let go a howl, quite unnerving to her ears, as he fell back into the hole.
In French, the crewman exclaimed that only a demon could sound like that, while Bunky’s fall left him face to face with a rodent. He exclaimed indignantly that he was ready, quite ready to meet his maker, as this had become more than flesh and blood could bear.
Heather hushed him.
Bunky found renewed vitality and left the rodent behind him as he scurried out of the open hatch. He landed on his belly beside Heather with an “oomph.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Heather said on a hushed note.
This series of unexpected and unprecedented phenomena astonished and horrified this particular crewman, who apparently, Heather discovered from his exclamations, was superstitious. He seemed riveted in place, his hand still on his heart and screeching enough to bring down sailors from an ocean away, “Ici! Bon dieu ! Ici! Capitaine! Ici, Louis…Satane!”
Apparently the Louis he called had heard him and came hurriedly towards him. Louis, taking no chances, called for others to join them.
Other crew members came jesting with one another, robustly teasing their screeching and horrified mate.
Louis, a large and amiable looking sailor, said with some affection, “Eh? Saucisse…what is the matter? You will disturb the captain while he dines.”
Heather’s schoolroom French was something she had on occasion practiced with her father. She was quite good and was fortunate enough that his words immediately translated themselves in her brain.
However, Bunky was roused by the commotion to ask, far too loudly, if they were done for. She put a hand over his mouth and whispered, “Not yet.”
“Aww, miss…they be laughing. No doubt in their cups and even more ready to throw us to the sharks. That is how it goes,” Bunky declared as soon as she removed her hand from his mouth.
“Oh, Bunky dear, do be quiet.”
It was then that two other crew members pointed and told the others that there were indeed two devils crawling about on their bellies in the dark.
It was then Heather noticed a change in the gathered assembly of crewmen, a change in their jesting demeanor. One of them pointed and said, “Mon dieu…mais non!”
Heather started up. They had been seen. No sense trying to hide in plain sight.
“Capitaine!” another sailor shouted, looking at Heather now standing only a few feet away and breathed with disbelief, “Mon dieu…I think it is…non, but it is…a woman!”
“What did he say?” Bunky, now at her side, asked. “Are they going to throw us overboard?”
“Not yet,” Heather answered as she moved closer to the sailors, who were obviously afraid and crossing themselves, stepping backwards.
She spoke in French to them, “Sirs, I think it best that you indeed call your captain calmly, or if you prefer, you may take us to him.”
The three Frenchmen gazed at her as though they thought themselves seeing and hearing what couldn’t be right in front of them. Louis’ eyes seemed to pop, Heather thought as she watched and waited.
They turned to one another and began arguing heatedly, but this was cut short when their captain, looking irritated and impatient, stepped
forth and demanded to know what all the howls and commotion was about.
He appeared to Heather as no less confused by what he saw than his men had been, but as he immediately took charge, she assessed him as far better able to cope with their sudden intrusion on his peace.
“What have we here?” he asked in his native tongue as he looked over the two stowaways.
Heather braced herself, drew a breath, and answered in French, “I beg your pardon, monsieur. My friend and I have had a series of mishaps, and quite unintentionally came to seek momentary refuge on your vessel while you were docked in port. Tired from our…mishaps, we unfortunately fell asleep and…well…” Heather began to falter at the captain’s utter look of incredulousness.
“Aha,” the captain offered and then in English, “allow me to address what is obvious. You are English, though you speak a decent French, still that I can say. Also, though you are ragged, it is obvious that you are not a peasant, but born to the English gentry…is that not so?”
Heather inclined, “Yes…”
He hurriedly interjected, “You are also quite exceptionally beautiful…even in your dirt, so that lends the question, what kind of mishaps and what the devil are you doing on my schooner?”
“Here is the thing. We don’t want to be here,” she offered. “But…”
Irritated, and already envisioning a problem, no doubt with her family, he cut her off, “Nor do I want you here. Are you trying to say that someone on my vessel has taken you against your will and kept you here?”
Heather was now close enough to see his eyes in the dim light of the nearby torchlight. There was a kindness in those depths. “Indeed, how unhandsome it would be of me to suggest such a thing. No, I merely meant that through awkward circumstances we have come to a point where we are at your mercy.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “What utter nonsense to be sure. However, allow me to proceed with first things first. I, mademoiselle, am the Comte de Brabant and captain of this ship.” He turned at that point as Heather’s eyes shifted towards a sound.