A Woman Made For Sin

by Michele Sinclair

  And until he learned something that either proved or disproved his sister’s safety, he could not write to Millie.

  Chase heard someone come up the staircase. The light footsteps definitely belonged to a woman. The housekeeper always retired early, and with Millie gone, none of the maids had a reason to come up here at night. He listened as whoever it was made their way down the empty hall, only to stop outside Millie’s bedchambers—not his. It had to be Millie. His heart began to pound and his palms trembled with the need to touch her. How had she arrived without him knowing? How had she known to ignore his orders and come home, that he needed her desperately? Did she need him just as much? And suddenly he didn’t care and rose from the chair the moment the door eased open and a candle flame lit the room.

  Elda Mae entered and Chase immediately went still. He watched as she stole over to the bed, bent down, and opened a large travel trunk. Had the chest been there the whole time? Could it have just arrived? After placing a note on top of the folded items, Elda Mae stood back up, but before she could close the lid, she spied him standing there, watching her. The cold bleakness in her eyes gave him his answer. The chest was intended for Abileen Rose, and from the volume of its contents, it contained the rest of Millie’s wardrobe. His wife thought to remain away, and for some time.

  “I did not realize you were here, my lord. I shall leave immediately,” Elda Mae said in a clipped voice.

  Chase was well aware that Millie had asked her old nursemaid to remain at Hembree Grove. Millie trusted the woman implicitly and had undoubtedly asked her to apply her eavesdropping skills and relay any news of Aimee. Elda Mae was an excellent choice for a cohort, mostly because, while she respected Chase and his rank, she did not fear him in the least because they both knew he would not terminate her employment without Millie’s consent.

  “What is in that chest, Elda Mae?” Chase choked out.

  “Exactly what it looks like, my lord. The rest of her ladyship’s things.”

  This time Chase did not miss the coldness in the maid’s tone. “And the note?” he asked, pointing at the folded item, waving at her to give it to him.

  Elda Mae hesitated. His request was a demand, and they both knew that he was going to read her letter. She leaned over and snatched up the piece of paper. “I have nothing to hide and neither does her ladyship.”

  Chase took the letter and began to read.

  My dearest Elda Mae,

  Know that as I write this I am well and hope this letter finds you in good health. I must ask you to pack the rest of my things and send them to my father’s estate, Abileen Rose. And though I know you will want to resist, I must beg you to remain at Hembree Grove. Please do not be troubled over Aimee. It shall not be long before this terrible wrong is righted.

  Dearest regards,

  M.

  Just below the signature, within the small amount of room remaining, was Elda Mae’s reply.

  Lady Chaselton,

  Enclosed is what you requested. I will remain at Hembree Grove until you ask for my attendance, which I hope will be soon.

  E. M.

  Chase held the short message tightly in his grip as a never-ending emptiness threatened to swallow him whole. He watched his hand outstretch as Elda Mae took the letter and returned it to the chest. “I was unaware you know how to write.”

  Elda Mae grunted. “Most of us servants do. Now, if you will excuse me, my lord.”

  “Why does her ladyship wish you to stay here?”

  Elda Mae stood still, thinking for several seconds before she answered. “I suspect with me around it won’t look to the other servants as if you’ve abandoned your wife like you did.”

  “That’s what you think?” Chase growled. “I didn’t abandon my wife, Elda Mae. If anything, I am the one who should be pitied. I sent her home to be away from constant reminders. To keep her safe and away from danger. Trust me, Lady Chaselton is much happier at Abileen Rose.”

  “I don’t doubt that she’s happier not bein’ lectured and held accountable for every thought and action of Lady Aimee’s. But I don’t think she’s seein’ your demand for her to leave her home as a compassionate move to keep her safe. I certainly know that I don’t see it that way. Now, if you will excuse me, my lord. I have to speak to the footman and make sure this chest is delivered to her ladyship right away.” Elda Mae gave a short, perfunctory curtsy and then picked up the candle and headed to the door.

  “I’m not going to explain myself to you, old woman . . .”

  Elda Mae stopped by the door and pivoted to look Chase directly in the eye. “I didn’t suppose you would, as you couldn’t even give that small amount of kindness to your wife.” Chase glared at her, but Elda Mae’s hazel eyes held firm. “You say you acted out of concern for her ladyship’s welfare. But have you once looked at the things that happened that night from her ladyship’s point of view, my lord? Have you thought about what’s going to happen because you didn’t?” Elda Mae huffed and turned back around, but before she left the room, she added, “For your sake, I hope you do so soon.”

  Chase’s jaw tightened and he forced himself to relax. Elda Mae had only been protecting Millie. And if it had been anyone else who had hurt his wife, he would have supported the old woman coming to his wife’s defense. He wished he could have offered a smooth, simple explanation for his behavior, but he could not chance her telling Millie. For without a doubt, she would.

  Chase returned to the chest and retrieved the note. Going back to his room, he sat by the small writing desk and read it again.

  It shall not be long before this terrible wrong is righted.

  Millie still loved him, believed in him. She was waiting for him to send her good news. Putting the note aside, he dipped the quill in ink and began to write. He explained what he had learned about Aimee and that he truly believed her safe. He wrote about the thief and how he had yet to be seen again, but that Chase suspected he was not yet done. He told her he was still trying to determine just what the thief was after and that he was doing all he could to resolve the situation so he could bring her safely back home. Mostly, he wrote about how much he loved and missed her and that she would only have to wait a little longer. He signed it and returned the quill to its holder.

  Standing up, he picked up the sheet, uncaring that the wet ink stained his hands, crumpled the paper, and then tossed it into the fire. The letter was not a kindness. Upon receiving such news—of Aimee’s probable well-being, of the thief and the possibility that he would steal again—no threat or entreaty could prevent Millie from coming home.

  Chase watched as the white sheet crackled and turned black in the flames. He suspected he would write to her several more times in the days to come, and vowed to put them all into the fire.

  Aimee picked up her empty plate and headed to the kitchen. She knocked on the door, and after no response the second time, she walked in, affirming that JP was not inside. Based on the steam rising from one of the pots, he had not been gone long and was most likely on his way to Reece and Mr. Collins with their evening meals.

  With a sigh, she placed her plate onto the stack of the other dirty dishes waiting to be washed. She was so bored, she would have cleaned them, but the last time she had volunteered to do so, she had received an emphatic no.

  The cook was a complex man. Upon first being introduced, she thought him gruff in manner. Now she realized that compared to the hostility JP showed most of the crew, he was practically fawning over her. It explained why she got a plate when so many others ate from a handkerchief or whatever they could carry. It also explained why the meals were apparently a little more varied than normal. But Aimee suspected that their menu would soon become monotonous. The fruits and vegetables were almost gone. And if Reece had not been in the navy, where canning was first tried and proven a viable way to preserve food, her diet would soon be just meat and hard bread.

  Aimee was not deluded to think that she would relish such simple meals, but like the rest
of the Daring Three, she was glad that dietary variety was not a requirement for happiness.

  Deciding to sneak out rather than risk JP finding her there, Aimee left the kitchen and headed back to the cabin that the men had finally decided would be permanently hers. She took one step inside and plopped down onto the bed. The room was very small, but that was not what bothered her. It was the having nothing to do.

  She sat up and looked out the porthole to confirm what she suspected. The sun was nearly down and soon she would hear the whistle for the second dogwatch. Her body was getting attuned to the three- to four-hour watch cycles, and she was now sleeping as the nightshift crew did—in the morning.

  Sighing, she lay back down and studied the grain on the wood slat above her. Remaining hidden was now her choice. In another week her wrists would be healed, but it was clear that she would have scars. And because of that, she suspected Collins would let her remain hidden for as long as she wanted, knowing every day brought them closer to the Americas and delayed Reece’s wrath. While she wanted to remain hidden for at least another week, which would ensure they were closer to America than to England, she was unsure she could do it.

  Every cabin was now clean. She had even managed to convince the men to let her wash their clothes. She had never done such labor, but then she thought the men probably had never had their clothes cleaned before and would not know if she had done a poor job.

  She had tried to convince Jean-Pierre to let her help in the kitchen some more, but it was not long before he began to treat her like the main cook did at home. If she insisted, her presence would be allowed, but her help was absolutely not wanted. And truth was, cooking was fun only if you had more ingredients to use than were available on board.

  Over the past few days, the men had snuck by to give her gifts. One had brought her some dyes to use as water paints, another some pencils and paper, and even one crewman called Red Legs Solomon had whittled her a paintbrush as they sat out singing and talking one night. And she had painted, but there were only so many times she could recreate the sea using her porthole as a reference.

  The piercing sound of the second mate’s whistle calling the next shift broke her self-pitying train of thought. Time was her enemy. At home, she would have painted. Part of her longed to be able to do so again, but what she really needed was to be useful. If Millie were here, she would look around and decide for herself what she could do, and then make it happen. And if Mildred Aldon Wentworth could do it—so could she.

  Swinging her legs around so that they hung off the bed, Aimee leaned over and picked up the broken piece of mirror one of the men had given her. Her appearance was nothing close to what her lady’s maid could do, but all things considered, she looked quite presentable. It helped that she had convinced Collins to let her bathe again yesterday, so she also smelled better than she had. And tonight she needed to use what few assets she had.

  For this was the last afternoon she intended to sit bored in her room with nothing to do.

  “Miss! Come ’n’ watch us! Tonight we got us a full moon, so we was goin’ to play us some cards. Ya can see me teach ol’ Swivel Eye Stu a few tricks.”

  Aimee came closer and dragged a nearby crate over to use as a seat. “Why, I would love to join you, Mr. Stuart, along with Mr. Easter and Mr. Linwood, but not to watch. I would like to join your game.”

  Skylark Linwood, nicknamed for the tunes he could play, grimaced. Swivel Eye nudged him with his elbow. “Come on, Skylark. ’Twould make it more fun to play with four till the others get up ’ere.”

  Linwood’s frown only grew more severe. Thin and wiry, he had a long neck and a protruding Adam’s apple. “I don’t mind playin’ wid ya, miss, if ya knew da game, but as ya don’t, it might be best for ya to watch.”

  Aimee nodded. “I agree, Mr. Linwood. But it may be that I know how to play, for I am knowledgeable of the rules to several games. My friends and I play them regularly. Of course, I am not the master my best friends are, but I have learned a few of their tricks this past year. I would love to apply them amongst seasoned players.”

  “Ya don’t have any stakes though.”

  Aimee’s green eyes flashed. “You forget that I’ve seen you play before, Mr. Linwood. You play for duties, not funds.”

  “Miss, ya have no chores to be givin’ us and ya knows that we’re not goin’ to be givin’ you ours,” said Swivel Eye Stu.

  “True. How about if I lose, then I owe you a portrait.” Aimee frowned, pretending to think hard. “And if I win, you have to teach me about what you do.”

  Tom Easter cocked a brow and folded his arms. “I ain’t bloody teachin’ anybody a bloody damn thing.”

  Aimee studied the most normal-looking of all the seamen. He was average size in bulk and height. He even had brown hair and brown eyes. In Town, nothing about him would have made him memorable, but on the ship, his normalcy made him stand out. “Mr. Easter, I thank you for the compliment. You must believe that I will win.”

  Swivel Eye Stu slapped his knee. A thin man with a wandering left eye, he talked fast, moved fast, and tended to nick himself shaving. “Aw, miss, Bloody Tom might be thinkin’ that, but I sure ain’t!”

  An hour later, Aimee laid down her cards with a smile. More men had joined the games, and she had lost several hands but had won quite a few too. And while she intended to pay her debts, she also intended to collect what was due her.

  “Ahh, my lady, you are quite the strategist. It is not often I find someone who can match my skills.”

  Aimee politely shrugged. The crew called him Englishman, mostly due to his proper speech, but Digby Miller reminded her of Reece a few years ago. He was smart, young, and hardworking. He also aspired to become a captain and like Reece, he intended to remain unmarried. “Mr. Miller, I shall enjoy our lesson.”

  The group had grown too large to play cards anymore, so Swivel Eye Stu put them away. Aimee leaned back against the side of the ship and asked, “Mr. Solomon, how is it that you were given the name Red Legs? Your pants are dark, like the others.”

  “That’s cuz his name has nothin’ to do with his pants,” said Skylark Linwood.

  Swivel Eye Stu nodded. “Aye, ’ol Red Legs was late one day ’n’ wakin’ up. He ran so fast he was on deck ’fore he realized he forgot his pants. The bosun refused to let him go get ’em. And so his white legs turned bright red in the sun. You should have seen ’em.”

  Solomon scowled at Linwood and Swivel Eye. “Hurt like hell, too. Never would’ve thought the sun could cause a man to feel such pain. Somethin’ you might be careful of, miss. The sun on deck can be a mighty powerful thing.”

  Aimee almost reminded him that she was never up on deck during the day, but decided against it. “Mr. Miller,” she said, pointing to the mainmast. “How do you raise those large sails and the ones above them?”

  “Different ways. With the capstan, or those”—he pointed to fore-and-aft sails—“the jibs, staysails, and spanker are pulled up using a line that goes up the mast to the halyard—that perpendicular piece of wood. The lines are connected to a sail’s corners, which allow the yards to control the sails. We use braces—that rope right there—to set the angle of the yard so we can catch the wind.”

  Aimee followed everything he said. It was difficult in the dark to see all the details, but the ropes were clear enough in the moonlight, as well as how they were connected to the mast and yard. “What about those? Are those done the same way?”

  Bloody Tom scoffed. “’Ardly.”

  “No, my lady. Those are too high and must be set by climbing into the rigging.”

  “I am guessing that responsibility is not yours.”

  The Englishman’s eyes grew large. “No, my lady. None of us can do that work. Only the rigger’s willing to work that high.”

  “Only one person?” Aimee asked for clarification.

  “Both the sailmakers also climb the masts to help when needed, but no one else does.”

  Aimee sig
hed, looking up at the sail at the very top, thinking that she could climb that high and not be scared. It was one of the few truly adventurous things that she could do better than Millie or Jennelle.

  Chapter 9

  October 17, 1816

  “Mr. Willnon?” Aimee asked as she poked her head down into the opening that led to the lowest point on the ship. It was also one of the foulest smelling. “Are you in here?”

  She saw the flame from the lantern first and then a stooped, round-faced man appeared. His shape and form reminded her of a well-fed nobleman, but unlike those she knew with Dudley’s proportions, he had energy and worked hard. Dark hair grew everywhere she could see—his forearms, beard, even his knuckles—just not on his head.

  “My lady, you shouldn’t be down ’ere.”

  Aimee smiled. Most of the seamen were gruff with her when she caught them unawares, but she knew it was more an act for their fellow shipmates than real anger. Dudley Willnon was an exception, perhaps because he was happily married and everyone he worked with knew it.

  “Mr. Willnon, what is this place?” Aimee asked, continuing to stay just outside the small area.

  “The bilge.”

  “What is it for? And why does it smell . . . so wet and damp?”

  Dudley pointed his finger for her to back up, and she did so happily. He closed the hatch and made way to move around her, but Aimee stepped into his path. Realizing she would not move until he answered her question, he grumbled, “What rain don’t go off the deck and back into the sea, eventually comes here. The weight can make it safer in rough weather, but too much slows us down.”

  “So what do you do when too much water collects down here?”

  Dudley tensed his jaw. His mother had taught him better than to talk about something like bilges to any female. “Me lady, is there somethin’ you need?”