Agreement? To what? Am I going to jail? Both men were smiling. Even as much as she and her father had had recent disagreements, Tess did not think that the prospect of her being arrested would make her father look quite so happy. And Edward Graham was staring intensely at her, his mouth smiling politely, but his dark eyes hungry for her, roaming over her. His interest was unmistakable. No jail, then what?
Dr. Willoughby poured the glasses of brandy, and turning around to face the two of them, handed one carefully to Tess and another to Edward Graham. He raised his own glass, a look of satisfaction spreading on his face.
“Let us all drink!” her father commanded. Tess held her breath and gulped the fiery liquid down in a single swallow. Her father looked on in surprised amusement, then looked at Edward and smiled again.
“To your engagement!” he toasted.
“To us!” Edward raised his glass towards Tess.
Engagement? She was to be married? To Edward Graham? The brandy glass slipped from Tess’s grasp and shattered on the floor. Her heart pounded furiously. She couldn’t breathe at all. The room was spinning and a roar built in her head.
Good Lord! Married. To Edward Graham. To a man who she had seen first-hand was capable of grisly violence. She wasn’t going to jail.
Just a different kind of prison, she thought desperately as unconsciousness overtook her, and she too, crashed to the floor.
Tess awoke, confused as to her whereabouts. She closed her eyes, and focusing her thoughts, tried to remember. The engagement! Her engagement. She felt nauseated and willed herself to slide back into the peacefulness of deep sleep, but it was not to be. She opened her eyes again and blinked to clear her vision.
Cassie’s worried face swam into view.
“There you are! How are you feeling?” She swabbed Tess’s brow with a cool wet cloth.
“What happened?” Tess’s tongue felt thick and furry and a niggling headache snaked across her forehead.
“You fainted. Your father brought you back to our room. He said to give you this tea when you came to.”
Tess smelled the spicy aroma rising from the cup of tepid liquid. “What’s in it?”
Laudanum and some of Mrs. Hanley’s tea leaves and cinnamon. They said it was to give you some rest and calm you, what with the news about you and Mr. Graham ….” Cassie’s voice trailed off and she looked as though she were about to cry.
Tess sipped the tea, feeling its warmth sooth the dryness in her throat. “So that’s it, is it? Father would throw me away into the care of a murderer?”
“He doesn’t believe us. There’s no way to make him believe us.” Cassie’s brow crunched up with worry and she studied Tess’s face, both of them sharing the fearful memory of the dying Crone. “What are you going to do?” she asked softly.
Tess finished her tea with a last swallow and looked into Cassie’s anxious face. A warm buzz was creeping up her spine and she felt a feeling of calm wash over her. What to do indeed? She thought carefully for a moment and exhaled.
“I’ll not marry,” she said firmly. “Better to die by my own hand, than by his.”
“I’ve been savin’ this fer a very long time,” Mrs. Hanley told Tess, as she handed her a small package of rolled ribbons. “It’s not much, but who knows when a woman pretty as yerself will have nice things again in this new land. Go on. Take them. Fer yer weddin’. They’ll bring good luck!” She beamed at Tess, her eyes floating with tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks at any moment. Her grandmother seemed genuinely delighted with the announcement of Tess’s engagement.
Tess looked down at the ribbons that her grandmother offered as they lay in the woman’s shaking hands. She took them, lingering a moment as her own hands touched her grandmother’s work-worn skin.
Red ribbons. Shiny coils of crimson silk. Light as a feather, each one, but strong as a rope. A tiny item, but suddenly, the strands felt more dear to Tess than anything she had ever been given.
I will use these for something much happier than a forced wedding, she thought, no matter what her grandmother’s intent was. Of that she was certain. Tess clasped the ribbons in her own hand and gathered the teary-eyed woman in a hug, feeling her own eyes well up with gratitude and guilt.
Where did she get these? Tess wondered. Such an item would have been very expensive to buy back in the market. Probably completely out of her grandmother’s financial reach.
“Where–how did you get these?” Tess stammered.
Her grandmother grinned at her, obviously pleased at the reception of her gift.
“Do ya’ like them? They’re from China!” she proclaimed, as though she had personal knowledge of such a far off land.
“But they must have cost a fortune!”
“Aye, they did at that,” she nodded, and puffed her chest out in pride. Then she whispered conspiratorially, “But there’s rich folk, women with empty wombs, who was willin’ to pay dearly fer the secret tinctures what allowed them to get with child.” She hugged Tess tightly to her and kissed her cheek.
“After all,” she continued, wiping her own cheeks with the back of one hand, “what worth was all their fortune to them if they couldna’ bear any young? If they couldna’ have any family?”
Mrs. Hanley, unused to being idle, soon found ways to pass the days aboard the ship. Immediately after Tess’s faint, the housekeeper insisted that Tess spend the next few days lying down. She herself, Mrs. Hanley announced, would assist Dr. Willoughby in looking after the patients in the sick bay, until Tess regained her strength. Cassie, she reasoned, with her strong aversion to the sights and sounds of Dr. Willoughby’s surgical room, was more suited to looking after baby Charles and Mrs. Willoughby than the sick ones anyway.
Sick bay on the merchant ship was little more than a storage hold outfitted with four hammocks and two long low tables. Spirit lamps burning a sharp mixture of brandy and turpentine were allowed here under careful supervision during the daily inspection of the sailors’ wounds. The fumes from the lamps’ fuel helped to mask the thick gut-wrenching odor of decay that was a constant companion of the sick and injured. A thin curtain partitioned the room in half, the intent being that the sick and fevered men would lie on one side, and those with physical injuries on the other.
She had spent only one day in sick bay before Mrs. Hanley observed that two who were injured seemed to have their own personal attendants. A crew member, who went by the name of John Robert, whose hands and face had been badly burned in the Argus’s fire and the carpenter whose lower leg had been amputated were both frequently visited by a small boy and a young sailor named Mr. Taylor. The boy was obviously malnourished and scratched shamelessly and furiously at his hairline, his armpits, and his crotch. Mrs. Hanley made a mental note to herself to ask the doctor’s permission to douse the lad’s cooties with full strength turpentine. The one they referred to as Mr. Taylor seemed to be in good health and was obviously adored by the younger boy.
“Don’t scratch, Tommy,” he warned. “You’ll only make it worse.” Tommy looked up at the older lad and grinned, then gritting his teeth, scratched with renewed vigor behind one of his ears. “You need a good scrubbing with the lye soap!” he chastised Tommy. “That’s what my mother would have done with you, back home.”
Mrs. Hanley wondered where ‘home’ had once been for either of them.
Since the burned man’s hands were still wrapped in bandages, even though they were, by now, crusted over with dried purulent fluid, Mr. Taylor brought him his meals and patiently fed him three times each day. Each time he arrived with a meal, he knocked and waited to be let into the room by Mrs. Hanley, acknowledging her with a sharp nod of his head. That young William Taylor has fine manners, she thought as she watched him balance a full bowl and two slices of bread spread thickly with lard.
“It’s fish chowder today,” William explained to his waiting patient, “and better bread than we ever got on the Argus.” John Robert smiled and grunted in reply. At least Mrs
. Hanley thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell. The man’s face had been deeply scorched by the fire and the scar tissue there was already tightening, as it began to shrink and cure, like a piece of wet leather drying in the sun. His eyelids pulled tightly across his eyeballs, giving him the appearance of someone permanently squinting; the corners of his mouth pulled back into an ugly scowl. His hair and eyebrows showed no sign of re-growth. The overall effect was one of a rather terrifying façade. Quite imposing it was, given the man’s height and massive build.
“It’s the finest of the fish piss passin’ fer gruel, ya mean, don’cha? ‘Course ya’ do!” the carpenter chuckled from his hammock. Mr. Lancaster was one of the best natured men Mrs. Hanley had ever run across. It had been nearly two weeks since his surgery, and it was time to change his dressing. She hoped his jolly outlook would carry him through the removal of the stuck-on bandaging. The infection would have made the stump end very tender by now, and judging by the ripe odor emanating from it, it was infected, as nearly all wounds came to be.
“Mr. Taylor? Tommy?” Mrs. Hanley asked. “Would ya’ be so kind as to help John Robert out into the fresh air after his meal is done?” She intended to give Mr. Lancaster as much privacy as she could, given their surroundings, when she revealed his leg stump to him for the first time.
Bringing a bucket of sea water to him, she set it on the floor in front of him. “Stick yer leg into the water fer awhile,” she instructed him. “It’ll loosen the wraps a wee bit.” She opened a tall cupboard door and produced a part bottle of rum from within. “This here’s meant to flush out the wound,” she informed him as she tilted it to wet a strip of linen. “An’ it might sting a wee bit.”
“Hold on now!” Mr. Lancaster exclaimed. “Ya’ don’t intend to pour that nectar on the wrong end of me, do ya’?” he asked in amazement. “ ‘Cause if ya’ was to ask me, I’d be tellin’ ya’ that it’d do a whole lot more good goin’ in this end of me!” and he pointed to his open mouth.
Mrs. Hanley laughed at his earnest observation. He had a point. She looked at him for a moment and decided.
“I’ll get a cup fer ya’ then. Just stay put.”
“Can I make another request of ya’, if it’s not too forward of me to think it?”
“An’ that would be?” she asked warily.
“Bring two. I’d hate to be celebratin’ the loss of me foot all alone.”
The knife felt strangely familiar. Its handle lay heavy and warm in William’s hand. The strange double curved blade had, at the moment of its birth in the fires of a skilled but long-forgotten smith, been forged as an extension of the metal handle and now, as William’s fingers curled around it, it nestled solidly in the palm of his hand.
A perfect fit.
It was unlike any skinning or hunting knife he had ever handled. Plain and darkened with a deep grey tarnish, it had been overlooked by the rest of the crew, bypassed in favor of the more ornate and lengthy weapons. William had found it at the bottom of the Mary Jane’s arms chest.
Perhaps it had been considered by the others to be too small to be safely used in hand to hand combat, too dangerously diminutive to be pitched against a sailor’ preferred weapon such as a cutlass or boarding axe, and thus it had been left behind. To William, however, it would be perfect in such a fight.
Perfect to be launched from a distance.
From a practiced hand.
Or from either hand, he smiled to himself. Now to fashion a sheath for such a thing. Perhaps the bos’n will not miss a small amount of sail and thread.
Lost in his thoughts of the logistics of obtaining materials for such a casing, William descended into the lower levels of the ship, intending to smuggle a small amount of cloth from the hold. His new weapon had a comfortable weight to it, its surface slick and smooth, its shaft feeling well balanced against the mass of its handle. Overcome with a totally impetuous desire to test its behavior in flight, William hurled his dagger, aiming for the corner of a wooden box stored in the shadows at the base of the galley wall. With a spontaneous flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning on a short trajectory path. It found its mark landing with a satisfying thud as the tip bit deeply into the box.
William stared in distress.
Only a hair’s breadth away from his knife, a hand froze in mid-reach. A delicate hand that had come out of the shadow without warning, apparently seeking the same box. William sucked his breath in sharply as his eyes, now adjusted to the low light, came to rest on the blue ring, glowing ever so faintly even in the semidarkness.
God Almighty! What have I done!
He opened his mouth to utter an apology, an explanation, anything at all, but all that exited from his throat was a ragged breath.
Tess stepped out of the shadow and fixed him in her stare. William was sure she could hear the panic in the hammering rhythm of his own heartbeat. For a few tortuous heartbeats neither of them spoke, and then Tess took a deep breath.
“What were you aiming for?” she inquired, her voice steady and low.
“Miss Willoughby! I am so sorry! I didn’t see anybody around and I didn’t know that you were reaching for it! It was inexcusable and–”
“What was your target?” she cut in, her voice just as calm as William’s was frantic.
“Uh … the corner of the box, Miss,” and he nodded miserably in its general direction.
Tess peered down at the box and spoke out loud, though William was not sure that it was for his benefit at all.
“My gran–Mrs. Hanley requested that I bring some dried sprigs of mint to her for use against the malodorous air in sick bay.” She grasped her ring with the fingers of her free hand, absentmindedly toying with it, or perhaps just hiding it from his eyes. William was not sure which.
“I had been momentarily confused about opening the box. In the dark I was not sure it was the one I sought, therefore I hesitated before reaching out.”
She bent forward again, squatting beside the box, and ran her fingers along the knife blade and handle.
“Well Sir, it appears that you have found your intended mark indeed.” She looked up at William and smiled. “No harm done at all then, as I was aiming for its latch. Do you often hit your mark dead on?”
“Nearly always,” William sputtered, “But Miss, I am sick to think of what might have happened ….” His voice trailed away.
“What do you propose you do to make it up to me then?”
“Truthfully, I have no idea but I assure you that I am at your service, Miss! No request from you would go unanswered.”
“None?” Tess’s smile had been replaced by a stern look, desirous of his affirmation.
“I assure you that.”
“Then ….” She stepped forward and drew herself up as tall as she could. The nearness of her once again made William’s breath harsh. He stared into her eyes; even by lantern light they were as deeply green as the ocean they sailed upon. For a few powerful heartbeats they stood, their faces mere inches apart.
God provides the birds with food, but He does not drop it into their nests. Make what you can of your given opportunities.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Captain Crowell’s words whispered inside William’s head nudging, taunting, and suddenly he felt their hidden meaning open up to him.
Impetuously, he reached out, his hands resting on the slight swells of her hips, his fingers drawing her against him. There was no hesitation in those emerald eyes. William bent his head forward and lightly brushed Tess’s lips with his own, then pulled back and searched her face. Her eyes were half closed, the contours of her face beautiful even in the shadows of the dim light. Her body pressed against him.
He kissed her again, this time tasting her lips, meeting the gentle tip of her tongue with his own. He alternately licked and suckled her skin, trailing butterfly kisses gently down the front of her throat, the tip of his tongue stopping to swirl enticingly in the dip above her collarbone. Tess’s lips parted as she tilted her head back and a
soft moan escaped her. Her breath came in shallow waves as she drank in the sensations he was causing. Lost in a moment of lustful madness, William kissed her again, and felt her hands slide up around his neck. Her touch upon his skin was thrilling, so overpowering … and quite wonderful.
She responded to him, leaning into him, caressing his face with her fingertips, feeling the short stubble on his skin, and then slowly outlining his cheekbones, drawing her fingers along to track the angle of his jaw. Her touch was electrifying and William groaned with the pleasure of it.
“What was it that you wanted to ask me?” he whispered hopefully, nuzzling her neck just below her ear.
“Hmmm?” Tess exhaled. “I–I wanted to ask you … to teach me … to throw as you do. With a weapon of my own.”
Her words sent an instant chill through William, squelching the heat of the moment. He pulled away from her and his eyes widened. Does she know what she asks of me? To teach a woman to use a hand weapon, here on a ship would be a forbidden thing, he was sure of it. Probably a lashing, or worse if I’m caught! It would have to be done in secret, and how would that look, if anyone discovered us together? And then the reality of being together, of what they were doing–had just done–the reality of being together under these far more treacherous circumstances washed over him.
What in the bejeezes hell am I doing? he cursed himself. Not that he regretted having Tess in his arms. It was the sudden realization of the danger that his own actions had put her in, as well as himself that made him feel shaky and sick to his stomach.
And her already being betrothed! If her miserable fiancé were to catch us, we’d both be thrown overboard! How could I have put my own desires ahead of her safety? To have put her secure future into jeopardy? And now, to do as she asks? To teach her to throw?
William looked into Tess’s face. It was full of steely resolve. He saw no hope for himself. If he didn’t agree to her terms, and she were to tell anyone of his rash behavior, knife or otherwise, he would be severely punished, most likely ending in a long-drawn out and painful death. Of that he was certain.
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